


The Gift

by NeCophenhagen



Category: Actor RPF, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, F/M, Sex Work, Strip Tease
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29272971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeCophenhagen/pseuds/NeCophenhagen
Summary: AU. Nik is freshly divorced and seriously depressed. Gwen is a stripper. She is a perfect gift for him... Is she?
Relationships: Gwendoline Christie/Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 26
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is pure fiction. All coincidences with real people are coincidental and unintentional.
> 
> My dearest gwendolaj sisters. English is not my native language, so I am terribly sorry for all my mistakes, errors etc. in this text. If you would like to be my Beta, you are welcome! And thank you for reading and for any of your comments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small note!  
> I have been advised to add titles of music tracks to better reader's impression. So, I will write it here, in Chapter Notes. Hope you will like it!
> 
> This chapter music is: Bishop Briggs - River.

Although he had no particular plans for the evening, there was a certain sense of wistful loneliness. It was a feeling he hated in himself and despised in others.  
One could argue that he was running away from it, trying to cover himself with either very important business or posh entertainment. Yes, one could say that about him, as about all the other seven billion people on the planet.  
Joe met him at the club and led him to the high-backed couches arranged in semi-circles around a tall, circus arena-like stage. This circle, lit by professional soffits, was connected by a long tongue-bridge to another stage, where several poles - in a row - were arranged, along with a curtain, backstage and all the paraphernalia. He looked at all this pseudo-theatrical stuff with a detached curiosity.  
“What," said Joe, "you like it?”  
“Yeah. Not a bad idea. You could put on an immersive show here.”  
“Immersive? It's like... yeah, there is enough of this shit," his friend chuckled. “So true. Where's your guard?”  
He grimaced:  
“One, I hired him for the kids, and two, I'm not taking him to a strip club. What's he gonna think?”  
“That you're a normal, straight guy?”  
“Or that I'm desperate.”  
“It's a strip club, not a 30-something dating club. There are apps on phones for that kind of thing. Or any kind of... agency.”  
“Are you still trying to fix my love life?”  
“Well... how. Well, why? It's my fault you got divorced.”  
“Partly," he nodded seriously. “Why did you get involved in this in the first place?”  
“I was sick of seeing your head dipped in excrement. Abuse is a fancy word, but let's face it: it really exists, and you really are a victim.”

Joe had a nasty way of pissing him off with a line or two. However.  
It was Joe who got him to a divorce lawyer here in England six months ago. Turns out: everything he and his (ex)wife thought was right and the way it was - was wrong, and it wasn't the way it was at all. That's when Joe got all worked up. He would later tell their mutual friends, "I got him out of a dysfunctional marriage," and the best part was that not one person flinched a muscle when he said it. They knew. They had fucking all known about his marriage for a long time.  
Reflecting on this, he was once again struck by how bitterly the people who lived under their names in the press were not the same as the real people. And the sheer number of those who knew the truth never prevented that truth from being completely hidden. Sometimes even lying on the surface - and still people will prefer their sweetheart fuck-ups. The handsome man who knew kilometres of cock in his mouth would be the hero of a girl's reverie and an imaginary romance. The man who beats up his wife and smashes a bottle of scotch over her head every Friday will be the family man, the sweetheart, the evening show favourite. The joker, with his politically correct but witty jokes, prefers girls under the age of sixteen.  
And here he is. A man of impeccable loyalty, devoted to his family for many years, loving his wife, children, dogs and so on. Brilliant bullshit, so big he even believed it, and that was another reason to hate himself.  
All this, by the way, he had worked with a therapist and a family therapist, so the divorce came out so quietly and modestly, sort of... Actually, he had always suspected that his wife was a bit prone to exaggeration, including the severity of her own condition and the extent of her own, as Joe put it, "crazyness". She often swore and screamed that she would kill this or that man, tear them apart, but in all her life she had only dared to attack him, and only him, her husband, a couple of times. Mostly she got away with throwing things, shouting, small or large mischief, and boycotts. But with strangers, she always had the brakes on. That's why she could be suspected of faking her bad temper.  
At the end of the process she was prescribed more medication, recommended rest and meditation... and somehow she was at peace. At least with him.  
Perhaps he, who had escaped her majestic tantrums, had ceased to have any value in any sense, had ceased to be a target. She looked at him now as if everything had no meaning, but only pretended to be meaningful and real, and therefore not worth her attention. The way she looked at her ex-husband and the father of her children, was the same way she looked at everything else in this world: buildings, bridges, trees, money, food, animals...  
Everything but her children, she loved children, and that had to be admitted - maybe a little ("no," Joe would say, "not a little at all," well, let it be) narcissistic love, and yet...  
And he was all alone. The children lived with him twice a week, or would have, but somehow his wife had persuaded them to stay at home, or maybe the fact that they didn't have a home of their own here in England was working against him. Anything could have been, of course. So twice a week became - in time - twice a month. They might not have come to see him at all; his wife (ex-wife, he now corrected himself all the time) had set them up in the sense that he was a rampaging London alcoholic and a bohemian terrorist fucker. But since his children, sad as it was to admit, were used not so much to his immense love (unlike his mother, he treated them much more quietly, though he loved them infinitely - but, paradoxically for his profession, he could neither express it with a gesture nor say the right word) as to his money. Yes, they had grown tame, to money, to his tranquillity, and to the generosity that flowed from it, and in these incursions were... and not to say that they were on his side. It was more like this: they listened to his mother half-heartedly. Listening, of course, but, as they say, a new car doesn't buy itself.  
Joe interrupted the flow of his thoughts by shoving the phone right under his nose:  
“Look. This club has an app, too.”  
“How wonderful," he said without a trace of enthusiasm.  
"Hey. Download it.”  
“What's it for?”  
“It's..." his friend scrolled through the screens with one finger. “There are prices. A private dance, for instance.”  
“Оh.”  
“What's the matter with you? Let's just have a drink and relax, shall we? And I got something.”  
He refused the snow, but he did enjoy the whisky. He liked being here, he had to admit it, liked the fact that, separated by the high back of the sofa, it was as if they were alone with the stage, liked the music that was playing while the show was being prepared. Even the smell - of well-crafted genuine leather and some subtle male perfume with hints of a woman - rose? Freesia? It was hard to tell - the smell was perfect. Moderately persistent, moderately calm, unobtrusive.  
“It was obvious that this place wasn't cheap," he said to Joe. “I thought they only had them in America.”  
“Why?” Joe wondered. “Do you know how much money there is in London?”

Of course he had already thought that, but London was a bohemian place, and consequently, as a rule, everything was dusty, grim, outdated, badly washed or not at all. And cramped. Yes. The cramped nature of London pubs was, by and large, a commonplace and even a product of pride (and the tourist industry). Sometimes it seemed to him that Brits were basically unconcerned with such lowly things as comfort, excessive hygiene or personal space. At this club... a lot of things were different.  
“I promised you wouldn't regret it," Joe said as he read it all over his face. “And you're not sorry you came, are you? Aren't you?  
“No, not at all.”  
The waiter brought them some more whisky and took the empty glasses.  
“The show's about to start, gentlemen," he said politely. “Please, if you wouldn't mind reading the rules of conduct.”  
Joe raised an eyebrow, but under the unblinking stare he gave up and lowered his eyes to the phone.  
“What are the rules?” he asked Joe.  
“Yes... turns out there are separate ones for the short ranks.”  
“Pardon?”  
“The seats are right next to the stage," the waiter said. “There's a bit of a... a bit of a different code of conduct. I don't think you'll have any trouble abiding by it, though. Have a nice evening. Enjoy the show.”  
With those words, the nasty British face departed, glowing with smugness. John began to read, occasionally pausing to giggle or sip his whisky.  
“It is forbidden to touch ballerinas. Ballerinas? Are they serious?”  
“Well, let's say?” But he also involuntarily laughed.  
“I'd like to touch a ballerina," Joe said dreamily. “I think they're all so er... er... tight, like... like iron ropes under the skin.”  
“Homosexuality, hidden and pathetic, for Christ's sake," he said with a smile. “A woman should be soft. Like a flower petal or... or... a peach.”  
“Romantic. Oh, I forgot you like arses.”  
“Me?”  
They discussed for a while longer, arguing about the advantages of ass over tits and all that sort of thing. Then Joe finished reading the rules: it was forbidden to touch dancers, sometimes called "ballerinas" or "showgirls" in that stupid document. It was forbidden to throw anything at them, including money, to push notes under their underwear, to reach out to the stage... And also: obscene shouts, getting up on stage, demanding repetition and continuation - and so on and so forth. Twenty-first century striptease, he told Joe. It's hollowed out to the point where the concept itself loses its meaning.  
“No, we'll stay," Joe was starting to get drunk, and he liked everything, even this set of rules, more appropriate for a convent than a whore's strip club. “Let's stay, they say, their shows are the best in town.”  
They agreed that: they didn't really want to, and they didn't know what kind of “ballerinas” (oh my) is here, so they couldn't stick money in their panties, and anyway: they hadn't suffered from such perversions before, they wouldn't be attracted to such things now either.  
They were relaxing on the sofa. By the time the music began to play, and the colored lights began to flash across the stage, both of them were drunk. The world began to seem right and fair to them. They accepted everything that was going on with a benevolent smile. Joe even managed to dash to the recreation room, from where he arrived with a bemused grin on his lips. One of his nostrils had a white rim. He was unashamedly picking up the rest of the powder with his fingertips and licking it, grinning like a cat eating cream.  
The host, a pleasant man in his forties announced that today they were having a special programme for special guests, but it was obvious that he said this every day. He made a few jokes, which were quite funny, and he teased some of the audience: the old customers, apparently. He addressed them by name and in a rather flattering manner, and they responded, quite happy to receive such attention.  
The girls in red leather knickers and fishnets over their black bras began a rousing dance, but the only thing that impressed him was the coherence of their moves. Eventually they moved forward across the catwalk, right in the face of Joe, who was delighted with this turn. Girls pulled down their blouses, unbuttoned their shorts, and got rid of unnecessary items of clothing with the inherent fervor of the place.  
The audience cheered them on with shouts and applause, but it was somehow mellow, as if everyone was used to the performance, and he suddenly thought that most of the people who had come were seeing this not for the first time. Finally, there was a kind of climax to this bachelorette party: girls stood in a circle, facing the audience, their backs to each other, and, in unison, like some unified organism governed by a hive mind, they unbuttoned their bustiers. Joe cried out in frustration. The others drowned the girls in applause. According to the laws of the genre, under the triangles of black leather, the dancers revealed tiny, purely symbolic, sequinned bras. The same thing was going on with the panties.  
Not that he was surprised, but a divided sense of the crowd suddenly awoke in him as well: yes, it was a disappointment - but also a joy that the action would last a little longer. Man is an animal after all, but an animal which is not devoid of imagination.  
Eventually everything was exposed and told. The girl closest to them was now on all fours, arching her back, and Joe stared mesmerized at her charming, swarthy-smooth, folds between her legs. The girl quickly rolled over, squatted down, spreading her knees, and here Joe even stretched his neck. Her breasts bounced mischievously as she straightened and rose to her feet, her metal stiletto heels reflecting the light of the footlights as she walked away with a triumphant look. The hall roared cheerfully. Joe, joining in the applause, even banged his fist on the table.  
His phone vibrated and he grabbed it thoughtlessly, wrinkling in annoyance. And immediately he laughed:  
“Oh. Here we go, the tip is already asking for a transfer. Well, process management is top notch. Did you like it?”  
“Quite," he said, so as not to upset Joe or upset himself. This dance, though it might have aroused him-and even aroused him to a certain extent-seemed to him to be something fake, something rehearsed, and even awkward. Though it was hard to reproach the girls for unprofessionalism, no: it was the emptiness of their faces, a kind of emptiness that generally permeated the whole thing.  
Existential bullshit, he thought grimly. That's why Scandinavians have such a hard time breeding, answered a voice in his head, Joe's voice, of course.  
“I've left each one a hundred.”  
“Generously.”  
“You?”  
“I'm like you," he said obediently, and Joe started pushing buttons.

The next performance was announced over the speakers, and the hall - he could feel it - somehow tensed, the people on the adjacent couches even craning their necks toward the far stage. He glanced at Joe, who was finishing his bourbon, and he winked at him over his glass:  
“A local starlet. You'll like her. Um," he put the glass down on the table. “I don't know, maybe not. But there's something about her... She's kind of...”  
Joe's last words were drowned out by the music and the darkness. The spotlight illuminated the completely empty space for a while, and then the dancer stepped into it - and he understood what everyone in the audience were so struck by. He probably was enthralled himself. It was something new, something strange - and everyone here, including the stripper herself, understood that.  
The music played with some claps, sharp as backstage gunshots. The woman stood still: a beautiful woman, with blond hair, styled in beautiful retro curls along her delicate face. There was only one problem - or however you want to understand it.  
She was very tall, 6 feet or so. Oh, of that he had no doubt, she was - and looked - enormous. She was dressed in a trench coat, a dark grey men's suit underneath, standing on high heels. Underneath the suit he could see a black silk blouse. She slipped one hand into her trouser pocket. With the other, she put cigarette to her mouth and flicked the lighter. He could see her big, wide mouth, painted with scarlet lipstick. What a cheap act, he thought aloofly, and at the same time with involuntary admiration. Not every girl in this establishment would even bother to come up with something like that, to portray it.  
And suddenly, completely, delightfully in tune with the rhythm, she threw away her cigarette and turned to the audience. She crouched for a moment, spreading her knees, then immediately closed them. Then it was as if she was lifted, jerked upward, she rose, arched, her hands pressed to her face. She took a few uncertain steps, twitched, as if an electric current had gone through her. It was all so in rhythm, and so in theme, that the back rows applauded. She stroked her face, her breasts, her hips: her arms, long and delightful, danced over her head, up and down. And suddenly tensed and stretched forward, she folded her long beautiful fingers, and - yes, he could have sworn, she mimicked a gun shot that completely matched the shot in the sound - and even her whole body twitched at it and her face trembled - but he could have sworn that she shot that invisible gesture straight at him.  
There was laughter next to him; he realised that Joe had seen it too.  
She could have ended the show at that point, because he was so hard that his balls ached. For some reason he thought of the other men here in the hall and the women, of all the strangers - others - others who, like him, at that moment felt that: shit, baby, really, enough already. Lady’s panties were wet, his trunks were showing a hard-on...  
Did this bitch have some kind of magic, or what? Or was it just the magic of a spectacular introduction. As the actor, he knew that it sometimes made a lasting impression on an audience.  
He fumbled for the glass and, thinking that the blonde would now simply hoist her big body onto the pole and all the magic would finally disappear, took a few sips. However, it didn't go the way he'd hoped: things got a lot hotter.  
She walked down the catwalk, rocking on her high heels, almost running, tugging her coat off her shoulders. Throwing it away, she turned several times, all the while moving, dancing and getting into rhythm with the aggressive, angry music. She took a few more turns, hugging herself and reaching out to someone unseen, as if begging for a hug.  
When she reached the circular stage and found herself right above him and Joe, she, onder the roar of the audience, pulled her jacket off her shoulder, and put it on again, and so on several times. Someone behind them shouted to her: come on, come on! He caught himself almost opening his mouth to yell at her. Finally, the dancer pulled off her jacket and was left in a blouse that was more hiding than revealing. Joe leaned over to him and spoke something. He could hardly hear him.  
The dancer crumpled up her jacket and tossed it without looking, and it fell into his lap. There was an exasperated shout from somewhere in the back rows. He realized that he was lucky, and that people around him were just oozing envy now.  
The jacket smelled of freesia, he could have sworn. His boner had taken on an unholy proportions. Someone slipped a hand to him and he realized it was a girl waitress. When the show started, all the male waiters were somehow unobtrusively replaced by these half-naked girls, in panties and bikinis, with ridiculous aprons. The girl took the fucking jacket from him, though he clung to it like a drowning man to a straw. It would have been amusing if he had been the least bit amused.  
Meanwhile, the scene was in a state of apocalypse. So it seemed to him: she was twirling and dancing, her big, though neat, ass in perfect circles. He could see the edge of her panties beneath her slim trousers. The men at the far end of the hall were howling, oblivious of all decency and rules. That was the plan, he thought slowly and in amazement. The bitch simply knew, KNEW the state she was putting everyone in. Her red lipstick-painted grin flashed, all scarlet and white, and his groin ached. She crouched down and spread her knees, several times, in a fast and hard rhythm, and then slowly rose up, arching her ass, and began unbuttoning her blouse, bottom up, like a man.  
“Wha… what a bitch," Joe whispered, leaning into him and breaking through the chugging drums in her song. “What a fucking gorgeous bitch.”  
And Joe shouted, pressing his palms to his mouth:  
“Take it off, take it off baby, take it off!”  
She looked at Joe from under her eyelashes. Suddenly she stopped. Her hand crept down, ducked between her legs, she spread those long thighs as if she needed space to jerk off - or maybe she should, he thought in the same enthusiastic longing. She slipped her narrow palm under her waistband, then pulled it out and ran it upwards over the bare skin of her belly. Her fingers ducked under the hem of her blouse, where, still under the clasp, her small breasts hid. She began to caress herself, one hand between her legs, the other under her blouse. Her head was tilted back, her mouth slightly opened.  
Finally she unbuttoned her blouse and threw it off, easily and serenely. He could have devoured her breasts with a glance if they hadn't remained hidden beneath a simple black bra.  
Not an inch of lace, nothing of the sort. She turned people on by her very presence; she didn't need sequins or lace or silk, he'd figured that out already.  
Her body seemed perfect to him: that snow-white, marble skin, broad shoulders and long collarbones, and arms and legs as endless as life itself. And a belly that seemed soft and tender, the kind that begged to cover it with a kisses, or bites...  
“Fuck, don't tell me you don’t have hard-on," Joe muttered desperately, embarrassed, fidgeting beside him. “I could fuck this beast if... If...”

“What?" he thought, grinning crookedly and looking away from her with a huge effort of will. As huge as she was. If - not - what?  
She's a whore. That's why she's twiddling her arse around here. But all those trashy thoughts were somehow lost in her beauty, in her movements, so honed and smooth and bright, there was a nerve in her every gesture, there was a kind of special life. He sipped his whisky, and when he looked up he saw that she had disposed of her trousers, leaving her in shorts, bra and high boots with intricate lacing.  
She dropped to her knees and crawled to the edge of the stage, looking him in the face with that cheeky, slutty and innocent smile. She straightened up, unhooked her bra - and tossed it on the table, between him and Joe. He took a sip of whiskey, keeping his eyes on her, enduring her arrogant glare. Joe grabbed the bra, pressed it to his face and laughed. An animal, he thought. She's enjoying what bloody beasts we are.  
Meanwhile the dancer stood up in one smooth and beautiful movement and leaned forward, her butt towards the audience, and began to slowly pull down her panties. He looked at his palm and unclenched his fingers. Deep marks from his fingernails were darkened on his skin. She stepped out of her underwear, remaining completely naked, still focused and relaxed, all inside the music, as if the music and the dance could hide her from those greasy, murky stares and dirty screams all around. She turned to face him, knelt down and spread her legs wide. He thought he could hear those small, defenseless and touchingly slutty sounds. The slip of her fingers over her lower lips.  
“Ex..." began Joe in a completely intoxicated voice, "exgie... esbi...”

An exhibitionist. A rarity among this sort of profession. Or rather, no, he corrected himself, coming into a kind of cold-blooded frenzy. Not uncommon. But over time it all... fades away. That trashy doll apparently hasn't yet lost the youthful fervor that many actors on stage have. He could see it, hear it, feel it - she was flowing, just because she was watched, and ONLY because she was watched. She was getting high, there was no doubt about that. Pulling herself apart with two fingers, she looked bravely into his face, and noticing that he wasn't even lowering his eyes to her breasts, she licked her lips. He smirked and shifted his gaze. There was a tiny golden triangle of hair on her pubis, so soft and glorious he wanted to snuggle up and lick it. Below it was peachy, scarlet, blooming crimson and dark pink, and, yes, he could see it too, he didn't want to listen to Joe's excited muttering beside him - yes, one drop had fallen on the stage and stretched out in a silvery thread.  
The dancer rolled over to her knees and stood with her head ducked to the floor, in a pose of supposed submission. The last seconds to bring another weak person to a heart attack - and the music cut short, she slipped her hand to her bosom, a pale palm covering her from everyone. The lights went out, the stage plunged into darkness. People in the audience howled, stamped their feet, clapped, jumped up from their seats.  
The spotlight came on, and he saw that the stage was empty. Her clothes had also disappeared. It was as if he was imagining things, but judging by the shouts around him, no, he wasn't. They brought the flowers, baskets of flowers and bouquets, and everyone was discussing the dance and its bold, beautiful candor and how beautiful she was, despite her height, or maybe because of it, and so on and so forth. He sat there as if stunned until Joe shushed him:  
“Well? How much?”  
“What?”  
“The tip.”  
He finished his whisky, something still tapping out a rhythm in his head. His heart ached.  
“Sorry, I...”  
“I knocked off five hundred," Joe said with misplaced pride. “Her show was perfect, you know. That whore is... amazing. She gives me a fucking hard-on every time. And I'm not into blondes at all, you know that.”  
“A thousand.”  
“Fuck, she's gonna make it tonight... I can't believe she hasn't been relegated to another club. It's a talent.”  
Joe pushed the buttons and cracked as if to hide his excitement, he must have felt a little ashamed.  
“All right, I guess you can't get a big girl like that everywhere. Let's thank her for the bra. Too bad it was taken from me. I could've jerked off with it.”  
“It's actually her costume. You're disgusting, you know?”  
In his own voice, apart from the hypocritical condemnation, he could hear envy.  
“If it was her costume, she shouldn't be throwing her fucking props in men's faces. She was so pleased with herself , hadn't you noticed?”  
They ordered more drinks. Joe raised his glass at one point:  
“Well, here's to your first time at the club. And I'm glad you enjoyed it!”  
“I haven't said anything about that yet.”  
“I can see it in your face. Hey, hey," Joe said cheerfully, not letting him get a word in. “You know what? I'm giving you a present. I'm gonna give you a gift. I... here...”  
Joe picked up his phone and started poking at it.  
“Okay... great. She's got a... she's got a private dance tonight. Here... I booked it. Oh, okay. That's it. That's it. You're going as "Mr. N.," and she's, by the way... Her name... it says here, her name is... Gwendoline. Hmm. That's a pretty name. So, Gwendoline's gonna make you happy tonight, Nik. And you'll finally relax. Forget your fucked-up divorce and all the fucked-up shit you've been going through...”  
“Wait”, he felt dizzy. “What are you doing? I don't... Joe, what the fuck?! I can pay for myself.”  
“It's a gift," Joe said softly and quietly. “If I see your eyes light up, do you think I'm going to pretend to not notice? Your eyes light up for the first time at… this whole bloody year. I don’t know, maybe more. You know what? That's what friends are for.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter music is: Meg Myers - Make A Shadow.

Nik sat down on the sofa and looked around the room with boyish curiosity. Expensive furniture, high walls, painted red - not exactly a bordello shade, of course, something with a claim to nobility. Wine red. A soft, low-backed sofa in the middle of the room, a sofa in which you wanted to sink, to lie down, not thinking about the thousands of people who had polished it with their asses before. Everything that had happened here before and after had somehow merged into one indefinite mass: lust, impatience, longing, pleasure. And everything was eliminated, softened, melted away in the wrong light of the LED strips hidden under the ceiling.  
A long dark wood chest of drawers, laden with candles - fake candles and yet creating the necessary mood - by the far wall, next to the door. The windows overlooked the city at night; the light from the stranger's lives was a nice touch. He looked at the thick-pile carpet under the soles of his trainers. On the right hand side of the sofa was a wooden table, or rather a niche, in which he noticed the carefully prepared ingredients of a pleasant evening, the innocent elements of future sin. 

An unopened packet of sanitary napkins, and a fragrance-free one for allergy sufferers, a box of paper towels, bottles of water. Wet towels like those handed out in Japanese restaurants. A low glass of thick glass - in cellophane - and a bottle of brandy. He had no doubt that if he pulled out a drawer made in the same alcove he would find some almost airplane stuff there: salted peanuts in a sealed bag or something similar. Hygienic, sensible, neat. He felt funny and a little disgusted.  
To calm his nerves, he poured brandy, removing the crisp wrapper from his glass, poured, and then took a big gulp. Warmth rolled from his throat down, straight to his heart. He sighed a few times, trying to amuse himself with all sorts of unintelligent, teenage thoughts.  
I wonder how many men were cumming right here? Not a brothel, he repeated to himself a few times, no - but on its way to it. Sex sells well, after all. If something can sell well, why not?  
He grimaced, poured himself another shot, but his hand froze halfway through: the door finally opened and let in a tall figure in black. He stared blankly, amazed at what an enormous woman she was, after all. How old is she?  
Gwendoline walked in, holding some sort of small, stiff purse-like thing in her hand. She set it down on the dresser, something clicked, and he raised his eyebrows: it was a bumpy, red, cassette recorder, as if it had arrived here straight from the nineties. No, really? He'd heard that a lot of millennials were into this kind of retro stuff. But she's not gonna...  
“Hello," she said in a soft, melodious voice. He was fleetingly surprised at how feminine it sounded. It was like little smooth pebbles falling into warm milk. She had a strong London accent, so English teachers used to speak, and she pronounced the words separately, neatly, gently, taking them on her tongue and letting them out into the world in a perfectly molded, aligned sing-songy way. “Thank you for choosing us, Mr. N.”  
“Nik," he said automatically. “Mr N - that's how my friend signed me up.”  
And why is there the greeting, which sounded more like a shoe-store clerk or a flight attendant? No, of course, screwing a stewardess becomes an erotic dream for some men, but... But, no, not for everyone, that's first and second. He shuddered slightly at the cynical calculatedness of her words. 

“Nik," she repeated with a smile, tilting her pretty head slightly to the side. Her wavy hair was a little uncurled after the dance, the twists glinting against the dark fabric of her turtleneck top. “It's all about you and everything here is for you. It's about intimacy, intimacy and touch, all designed for your comfort. Relax. Don't be nervous. Well, even I get nervous sometimes, trust me, it's normal. Breathe in and out, don't try to control everything. Control is a phantom feeling. Tonight you get pleasure, you're not responsible for it, you're not responsible for anything: you just take what I give to you. I will be a little... touchy-touchy. It will be as gently as possible. Let go of your worries and try to forget everything.”  
He was silent, raising his eyebrows. She continued to smile; he noticed that her lips were covered with glossy, scarlet lipstick. Her thickly painted eyes looked down at him, with a patience, a sympathy more typical of a primary school teacher.  
She had a lovely, childlike, angelic face. Now that he saw her closer, he involuntarily admired the features, perhaps ordinary or inexpressive - but which all somehow added up to a stunning innocence of an image. Big, dreamy blue eyes in thick false eyelashes. Marble-pale English cheekbones, rounded chin line, stubborn and defenseless at the same time. When she smiled, her white teeth, smooth and flawless as almonds, were revealed. Her smile was enveloping, appealing and at the same time terribly mischievous, as if she was always on edge, preparing not just to smile - but to laugh.  
He wanted to hear her laugh. For some reason, it was at this - awkward, to say the least - moment that he wanted to hear her laugh.  
“What's your name?” he asked, coughing, coming out of his momentary stupor.  
“Gwendoline," she answered without stuttering.  
“No, I mean... actually.”  
She pressed her lips together and frowned slightly. He mumbled hurriedly:  
“I take it you're probably not allowed to give your real names...”  
“Gwendoline," she repeated softly. “That's my real name. I do not hide the name. I'm a dancer, not a sex worker.”  
He felt embarrassed. He poured himself a shot and sat down, placing his elbows on his knees. He ran a hand through his hair, looking at the beige tufts of carpet:  
“I'm sorry. Didn't mean to offend you. Actually, it was my friend Joe who came up with the whole thing. I wouldn't order... This private dance. I don't know what it is and what can and can't be talked about.”  
Clinging to Joe was the least intelligent thing to do now, and yet he clung on, as if that could somehow hide his own shame.  
“There's not a lot you can say," Gwendoline said with a chesty chuckle. “Don't you think so, Nik?”  
He hummed. It was hard to tell if she was being sassy - or just teasing. Maybe the mention of "Joe the friend" amused her, and she thought she hadn't heard such an idiotic excuse in a long time.  
More like all together. She took a pity:  
“Sometimes words help, though.”  
Nik nodded in disbelief; her reasoned tone didn't suit this place very well. He'd assumed that girls in this line of work mostly mewed and chirped like birds, that sort of thing. Gwendoline interrupted his grief-stricken musings by asking, with delicate, gentle curiosity:  
“What's the accent?”  
He knew at once what she meant, but chose to play dumb:  
“Mine?”  
“Yes," she nodded patiently. She listened to him very carefully, never taking those beautiful eyes off him, and it threw him into something inexplicable, strange feeling, as if you were plunging your hand into an impossibly warm and caressing stream in a deep river, only... no, it was not a hand - it was a heart.  
“Danish.”  
“Oh," with trained, albeit gracious, amazement. “Very beautiful.”  
He laughed:  
“Now that's something I've never been told before.”  
“Really? It's like... your words are like icicles," she held up her hand and ran her finger in a circle along her cheek. “Smooth, but a little prickly.”  
He wanted to scream in despair. At how much he wished she would repeat it to him - just him - just him, for fuck's sake. Just as if she'd really think it. That... shit. Fuck her. After all, she'd said it to different men, and they'd all sat there like suckers with their ears, mouths and brains wide open, listening to this gentle nonsense, this adorable, lying, fucking bullshit, with their hearts pounding with lust, or maybe even with a hard-on. Russian accent, Danish, Swedish, even some Japanese. Bitch.  
Gwendoline turned to her funny tape player. Clicked a button, and Nik chuckled unwillingly:  
“It's very old-fashioned. Is high tech illegal around here?”  
“No. It's just a quirk of mine. For the mood," she glanced playfully and shrugged. “I like the sound coming from a cassette.”  
How old are you, he wanted to ask. But he held back. She might have been in her twenties or thirties or even forties, her age, like many well-groomed Englishwomen, had become something vague and malleable. For a moment they all froze in the same time, English roses, blooming angels: only to then fall instantly into another time, a time of prim, neat old women.  
She pressed something, a dry quiet murmur came from the cassette, a rustling sound that, truth be told, they had stopped hearing as they switched to iPhones and other modern things. There was still magic in that sound. Though maybe the truth was just an echo of our childhood, he thought.  
That Gwendoline wasn't so stupid.  
No, she's not stupid at all, he answered himself. She... of course she hadn't said much in those minutes, she had just been polite and courteous, but there were still two things in everything she did and said - a kind, delicate sincerity and a lively intelligence.  
That only messed things up, of course.  
He sat back and took another sip, staring at her point-blankly. She was dressed rather oddly - for a stripper. But not strange for her, since he'd already seen one rockin' dance. He'd already realised that she didn't need tinsel and glitter on her tits.  
She herself was like a huge New Year's present or a living room decoration figure, only alive and real.  
Gwendoline was wearing a short black skirt of leather or something. A tight black turtleneck. And black shoes with high, thin heels. She wasn't wearing stockings, and he liked that instantly; he liked to see the bare skin of her legs, absurdly long and blatantly adorable.  
She had beautifully sculpted, plump (but that only beautified them) knees, smooth columns of thighs going up from them, and impeccably long calves going down from them. They turned into slim, strong ankles, and then into large, narrow feet, with barely noticeable bumps on the instep - the marks of long ballet lessons or something like that. He had heard that real ballerinas literally had their feet broken out, making the instep so convex, it was considered particularly beautiful.  
A new form of abuse, of course, similar to lotus feet, but he hesitated to say it aloud. For example, his wife (ex-wife, yes) thought ballet was very beautiful and he was just a dork and understood nothing about art.  
That must be who he was, he thought, as he looked up from those narrow-nosed lacquered shoes in embarrassment. He couldn't even appreciate her dancing, to say some kind of compliment, something like that...  
“You danced very beautifully," he ventured cautiously. “I mean it. It's true.”  
“Thank you," Gwendoline blushed.  
“No, I mean it. It was so... unusual, and lively, artistic, expressive, as if... as if you were living there, inside... Inside that show of yours, not just working it out.”  
“ Well, thank you," she repeated, in a hushed and slightly monotone voice, but without irritation. Rather, confused. She closed her eyes as if to say, “Yes, and I know, I know everything.”  
How many times had she heard that from other men? Here, in this room? Or in some other room that he and Joe, two fresh-faced green suckers, just didn't know about? In some other room where she'd been messing around, taking cocks in her mouth, in her ass?  
He was shuddering, disgusted with himself, but he could not shake off such thoughts, even looking at this frank and pretty face, even realizing that he was unfair and demanding the incomprehensible, and wishing the impossible.  
There was music playing, guitar strumming: and Gwendoline ran her hand over the panel by the door. The light began to fade, slowly, as if melting away, leaving only streaks of dark pink near the ceiling and some other hidden light panels that kept the room from sinking into total darkness. The woman on the tape sang in a deep voice, slow and lost, as if on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but she was calming down, and the song poured on, picking her - and him - and everything around her, rocking on the waves.  
Gwendoline swayed, raising her arms, pressing her palms against her neck, closed her eyes, then stepped towards him. Her hips swayed, her legs straddling the way models did on the catwalk, but strangely she was very relaxed. Or so it seemed to him: that a sweet calmness was emanating from her. He stared into her face and she smiled encouragingly, and he realised that he was looking almost pleadingly, with uncertain exasperation: please help me, I don't know what to do.  
She stepped around the sofa, dancing, and he trembled as Gwendoline put her hands on his shoulders. She rubbed lightly, gently and thoughtlessly at first, and then a little harder. Her fingers were strong; he wanted to stay in them, under them, in that touch, forever. It was such a helpless and childlike desire.  
She stroked his shoulders, then leaned in, her warm breath touching his temple. The scent of freesias, crisp green apples and wet irises enveloped him and stuck a steel hook into his heart, pulled at it. He leaned back, eager to intensify the feeling, to prolong it. But his shoulders rested against the back of the sofa.  
Gwendoline ran her palms along his forearms, up and down, caressing and leaving flaming marks, his skin burning with invisible and nonexistent flames under the sleeves of his shirt. He regretted now that he hadn't rolled up his cuffs. Oh, he could so... so much more be with her, feel her. She spoke, touching his temple with her lips, and her words made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He didn't know if she knew that. Did she even care what was going on with him?  
“Take my hand and lead me inside the shadow. Shh... Hey. Relax. I'm here for you.”  
She was only repeating the words of the song, but it was something he so... needed. He trembled, clenching his teeth so that his jaw ached - and then she whispered again, the whisper tickling his ear like a flower, like a breeze in a hot garden:  
“Shh. Nik. I'm right here, next to you.”  
She gave a short, wicked laugh - and kissed his temple. Or better to say, just a fleeting touch of her lips - and then she recoiled. And everything was gone. Even the music stopped for a moment.  
A fraction of a second later, as the singer screamed in a chorus like in an orgasm, Gwendoline returned: appeared right in front of him. A beautiful ghost, a stunning succubus. She towered in the half-light, dancing, her hips twisting, her arms flying up, her shoulders moving, her fingers, with nails covered in dark varnish, caressing her small, almost flat, breasts through her turtleneck, her fingers catching her own nipples, twisting and clawing at them.  
She spread her legs, trapping his knees, kneeling on the sofa. Her hips spread apart, she ran her palms along his stunned face without touching him. Then a wave went through her body, and another, the dancing equivalent of ecstasy, and she arched out, letting him see the silhouettes of her erect nipples, and the way her skirt had hiked up, exposing the edge of her panties. She pressed her groin into his - and made a few quick and smooth thrusts, or rather waves. And everything fell silent, this invisible ride on his erection (he was no longer able to hide something, he was afraid to even move) was over: she pulled back and stood up, stepped away, occasionally looking back at him with a cheeky grin.  
She hugged herself, shuddering to the beat of the music, and standing with her back to him, ran her arms around her waist, her skirt falling to her feet. And suddenly Gwendoline, snapping at the waist, leaned in sharply and quickly, showing him the dark strip of panties between her buttocks and something... He shuddered, her ass swinging before his eyes, a flicker of bare skin between her legs. Or was that what it seemed to him? Gwendoline leaned over, hugging her legs, they were white in the half-darkness, like two beautiful columns of pinkish marble, and they lasted, transitioning into needle-sharp heels. She straightened with a jerk, arching her booty, arching out like a cat. She was so beautiful in that moment. Everything was a pure beauty: her ruffled hair, her arms extended upward, even her black turtleneck and those thongs, more revealing than hiding.  
With the singer's sobs and sighs, she turned and walked over to him, standing a few steps away. With a chuckle she slid her gaze down his fly. He made a movement to cover himself and she shook her head, dancing and turning, shaking her golden curls: no, don't, relax, take it as it comes.  
His hands dropped to his knees, he spread his legs wide so his groin didn't ache so badly. His balls were ready to explode at every minute. He was aware of that in some corner of his mind, just as he was aware that if she got any closer, or stood over him - he wouldn't be able to hold back, reaching out to touch her. Didn't care if he got kicked out of the club at the same moment, he knew the place was stacked with security cameras - for the girls' safety, of course, or maybe for some other far-reaching purpose as well. It all began to feel unimportant, swaying along with the music and the dancer - at the very edge of despair.  
Gwendoline did just that: stepped even closer, so that he could feel the warmth of her nakedness beside him, feel the touch of her legs against his thighs through his tight jeans. She stood up, spreading her legs wide, he stared into her face and tried to say something: something to justify himself, probably something to fix things.  
He had no idea what was about to pour from his lips. His mind was blank. She noticed as she danced, arching and swaying, she kept looking at him with intense and mocking interest. This, of course, did not add to the situation's comfort either. But this discomfort, though excruciating, was also desirable, strangely welcomed, tense and proper, like a clenched fist or an mouth opened to shout.  
She shook her head warningly at the very last moment and touched her fingertip to his lips: quiet. No need to say anything.  
A chorus rumbled, apparently always marking some kind of climax of the indecent in her dance: and in the following seconds it did. She sat on top of him, placing her sweet, delightful flesh on one of his knees. She even rubbed herself against him, but he didn't have time to think about it or to be conscious of it. His breath caught because she leaned back slightly and raised both hands, crossing them in a brief, sincere gesture, strangely out of place in this whole elaborately sensual dance. The blackness slid up, releasing white, soft, smooth, vibrant: and her breasts popped out from under the edge of her raised turtleneck. She pulled it down over her head and tossed it aside. Her hair flew up and fell over her bare shoulders. He could see that her nipples had risen and swollen deep pink, neat little nipples that beckoned him to press his lips to them, sink his teeth into them and tickle them with his tongue.  
She sat on his lap, her head tilted back and her breasts curving toward him, jiggling, wriggling, and if before he thought his head was empty, now he knew a real cerebral vacuum.  
Then Gwendoline turned her back to him, swayed up and down, lifted herself up and, with her hips spread wide, arched out, showing him a charmingly athletic back that ended in a black patch of panties.  
She had dimples on either side of her spine, cute dimples over her buttocks. She twitched her bum once, and another, leaned even lower, and he finally saw what he had to.  
Her panties were cut in such a way that they split open in the middle, allowing him to see almost all of her. Or rather, this semi-nudity felt as fetishistic as a mask or a slit bustier: it turned him on, it deceived him, it cheated him - and with sordid sincerity it revealed everything.  
But the worst - or the best - or the most delightful thing about it all was that between these edges of the tight black fabric there was a strip of black pearls sewn in. And he could see, quite clearly, that they glistened with moisture, sometimes disappearing between her lips, sometimes, with some movement of hers, becoming visible again. The black beads, rolling over in her most tender and delicate place, must have given her considerable pleasure. She twisted her butt again and again, forcing him to watch, simply pinning him in place with this sight, chaining his gaze.  
Gwendoline tortured him some more, and straightened up, turned, bent over so that her warmth and scent held him captive. He thought he was about to cum because she touched his shoulders with her hands, her fingers sliding lower. But they stopped at his wrists, and - she let him go. Her touch was painful, cruel, brief. She did the same to his chest, his hips, and then - he realised with longing that the song was going into a final chorus - she stepped back, shaking her hips, away from her, completely crushed, client.  
Her legs seemed to buckle, she fell to her knees in unison with the scream from the tape player. She rolled over, spread her legs, lying on the carpet, lifted her ass, high, high, so high that he could now see those damned beads shining in the city lights that poured over her body from the window. He could see the sweet, inviting moisture that glistened on the inside of her thigh.  
He thought he was in some kind of dream, an erotic nightmare or a reverie, he didn't understand. Her hands danced over the carpet, sliding like white snakes, flailing, never stopping.  
She jerked her pelvis several times, parodying coitus, the muscles in her belly quivering, contracting. She even pulled her panties up with one hand, thrusting herself into those pearls of hers. The panties cut deep into her soft pink flesh.  
His mouth was dry and hot, and he realised at one point that he was sitting there with his jaw hanging open. He could barely hear his own rapid breathing and the way his heart was pounding. Gwendoline rolled over and ended up on all fours, she twisted her ass again, but this time he could only see her distorted face in fake (maybe not) ecstasy.  
She crawled elegantly with her long arms toward him. Her hair fell along her hot blush-covered cheekbones, her painted eyes slid over his - and covered, her arched eyelids drooping like a cat about to fall asleep. And when the music ended, quickly, abruptly, as if someone had stopped making sense of the continuation of this desperate, passionate song, Gwendoline just froze, pressing her face against his knee, turning away from the window.  
It was as if she had gone limp, though he could feel her tension and rapid breathing, but it was as if all the energy that had turned her on and made her twist and dance had been taken out of her - and instead left the real thing.  
He jerked his hands up when the light in the room went out completely, swallowed dry and made some kind of stifled coughing sound. And, when the light came on, it was hitting his eyes - though still calculatedly soft - Gwendoline was standing a few steps away from the sofa, already dressed in her turtleneck. She picked up her skirt from the floor and fastened some hidden buttons at the waist.  
“I... It was..." he began hoarsely.  
She smiled silently, detached, glancing at him - and away from him.  
“Thank you, and I..." he tried again in a pathetic way.  
“Thank you, Nik," she said in a voice slightly broken after the dance, and therefore strangely defenseless. “It was a pleasure working for you. You can call the hostess when you're ready. Take your time.”  
With those words Gwendoline turned and left, closing the door softly behind her.  
He clenched both hands into fists and raised and punched the sofa, the blows were soft and weak, and it made him cringe too. The way she just walked away...  
Bitch. Fucking cheap whore.  
Well, what did you expect, what did you expect, what? What, Nik, what did you expect from a professional showgirl?  
That she'd blow you right away, take your balls in her mouth, let you fuck her? No, seriously? Are you a grown man or something? Where are you, anyway?  
So he scolded himself and her, mercilessly, without holding back as he poured himself a generous portion of liquor with trembling hands. He drank it in one gulp, pressing the palm of his hand to his mouth to keep it from rolling back out. He had a strange tendency to become nauseous when he was very nervous.  
He got up and walked along the sofa, walked over to the window. His boner began to subside, but it was in no hurry to completely bow out. Nik pressed his forehead against the glass, peering out at the cars and street lights below.  
A door opened behind him, and he turned around in a kind of frantic hope, hating himself for it. No, it wasn't Gwendoline back, of course.  
Of course, the voice in his head lingered venomously, and he realised suddenly that it was his wife's voice. Of course it wasn't her.  
Joe walked in. The hostess was walking with him, a stern-looking girl, her manners and clothes - white shirt, tie, gray mid-calf skirt - looked like a concentration camp supervisor. Strangely enough, Joe had managed to cheer this vixen up, too, and now she was smiling on the tips of her lips, listening to some of his mate's jokes and nodding as she went.  
She clicked on the tape cassette, the tape began to spin fast and nervously, apparently rewinding had begun. Joe laughed:  
“Have you been having a retro party here? So? How was it?”  
“I loved it," he chuckled under the gaze of the hostess. “I loved it. Everything was above... all praise.”  
“Very nice," the hostess said mechanically. “We look forward to seeing you again, gentlemen. Regular customers get bonuses and discounts, which also take into account the size of your tips and other parameters of your behaviour.”

Joe cocked his eyebrows mockingly, inviting him to laugh with him: "parameters of behaviour". But he looked very pleased.  
“Well? Was it a good present?” he asked when the hostess left, taking a tape recorder. “Are you really happy, Nik? How was she dancing?”  
He stared out the window.  
“Beautiful," he said quietly. “It was very pretty.”  
“Really?" Joe didn't believe him. He walked over and stood beside him, leaning his shoulder against the window jamb. “It was just pretty, wasn't it? Didn't she take her clothes off?”  
He kept silence. Joe shrugged his shoulders in a hurt sort of way:  
“Well, I guess… Good. It's good that you just... you relaxed. You did relax, didn't you?”  
Nik squinted, with a crooked and guilty smirk:  
“Does it look like I was relaxed?”  
“No, but...”  
“Do you know it's her real name? Gwendoline?”  
Joe's face became ridiculously pouty:  
“No. Why? What does it matter?”  
He didn't explain, picking up his jacket, tossed on the far armchair by the far, mirrored wall. They went out, each checking their phones. Joe had left another tip for Gwendoline, an obscenely generous one, explaining to him as he went that no matter how bad impression she made, no matter how awkwardly she danced, she'd worked it off. Nik wanted to tell him that Gwendoline danced more than brilliantly. But he began to think that it would be some kind of violation of the mystery, of some special bond that had developed between them.  
No matter how elusive that bond might be, and however soon it might disappear, he thought of Gwendoline with a mixture of longing and tenderness. He didn't want to let her go, even in his thoughts.  
When the taxi with his friend left for the other side of town, he went up to the porch of his house, opened the door, stripped off his clothes, and strode straight to the shower. By the time the water had warmed up, steam was beginning to waft across the bathroom - he had a hard-on he could use for hammering nails. And by this point he had imagined all the things he could have done to Gwendoline - in all the poses and details.  
But he didn't cum from those incoherent, rambling, porn-postcard-like fantasies, no. He simply closed his eyes and saw again under his eyelids those black beads covered in her juice. So he found himself at the very edge.  
And then he remembered the touch of her lips on his temple.  
Shh. Nik. I'm right here, next to you.  
That's when he came, choking on his own scream.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter music is: Cho - Popalik.

He glanced at his watch and then at his phone: this neurotic anticipation did not add to his own dignity. Fidgeting on the couch in front of the empty stage, he felt at the same time horny, embarrassed, degraded - as well as alive and happy. There was a check mark on the app:  
Your private dance is booked for tonight at 9:30pm. Performance: Gwendoline.  
He gazed into the letters of her name like some unsolvable hieroglyphics. Tried to imagine her talking, laughing, eating, drinking, doing some everyday thing. Let's say, peeing.  
He could only see her in one element, a dance, but a human being, a living person, cannot always be like that, beautiful and unattainable. A human being must live, breathe and laugh, hate sugar latte or, on the contrary, love it, be afraid of spiders or secretly binge watch funny kitty videos. All these things are what we are made of and what makes up our essence.  
And yet he longed to see her dance again.  
She certainly had talent.  
It was sad that women wasted their talent on such a crappy job as this, he thought as he listened to the percussion. The hall was a little noisy, but he figured it might just be a Friday night. Somewhere near the stage, in a semicircular area, glasses clinked together, there were shouts of "happy birthday," incoherent greetings, discordant chanting. The waiter brought him a bottle of Cristal and a glass; he raised his eyebrows in surprise.  
“The gentleman from across the table is paying for it," the waiter explained nonchalantly. “It is for everybody in the audience.”  
“A bottle for everyone?” He was so blatantly provincial showing his surprise that the British face's lips twitched.  
He did not indulge Nik with an answer. Having opened a bottle, poured him a glass, the waiter simply walked away, probably wondering why such rednecks as Nik had any interest in such an expensive and fashionable place like this club, at all.  
A hillbilly, he thought to himself, but he drank the champagne.  
He went to the bathroom and examined himself in the mirror, as if he wanted to make sure that - no, he wasn't such a jerk. He wore the black Hugo Boss suit that always fit him well, the white shirt, its collar unbuttoned. Showing up at a strip club with his tie carefully knotted would have been odd. Let's just say it would be pitifully pretentious.  
Polished Italian shoes. Expensive watch. He definitely looked a lot better today than he had the last time. As he washed his hands, he winked to himself, trying to ease the tension. Not that it helped.  
Once again, before Gwendoline's show, they let some glitter-sprinkled princesses onto the stage, who twirled their asses around so much that it was a wonder their booties didn't fucking come off. It was beautiful, and by the end they were stripping in their usual harmonious way. That might have impressed poor Joe, but Nik hadn't told him he was going to the club. Betrayal was a sure way to lose what few friends he had left. Still, he hoped that Joe, when he found out, would forgive and understand.  
But maybe he'd laugh. Nik’s obsession with the tall dancer was the kind of joke one told in a pot-addled group. Imagine, Nik had once had a crush on a woman so big, she was even taller than him! He'd always prided himself on being the tallest of his friends. Now his pride had faded a little.  
Again she was announced through the loudspeakers, and this time, he thought, as he sipped his Cristal, yes, she didn't need any special introduction. Just say the name and half the audience would get a hard-on. I could bet all the cash you want that they' d get a hard-on.  
The stage was plunged into darkness and then lights began to flood in slowly, ominously - a gloomy silvery light. The music began to play, single drums, a mechanical but strangely mesmerising beat. The audience around him suddenly howled, and he thought, with annoyance - they had seen this performance. And apparently it was something special. Something of an absolute hit.  
Smoke wafted across the stage, and the spotlights flashed on two muscular, handsome men walking toward the stage. A tall figure appeared between them. Her hair lay in neat blond waves, tucked back from her temples, her face half hidden by a mask.  
He gasped when he saw the details of this appearance: the smoke over the stage slowly melted away, the light grew brighter. Two rings were attached to the thick collar around her beautiful neck, and a leash stretched from each - and these dark-skinned boys held on by the both ends. The men were dressed in leather trousers, and everything else one could get excited about in a fetishist fantasy: massive boots, caps tilted back. The most annoying thing was that they were both about her height and she was standing in heels. Their torsos were flawless, criminally handsome. Shaved, coffee-brown and smooth, every muscle moving and yet everything impeccable, sparingly in its place. Their nipples were pierced, which, to his mind, was already a bit over the top... However, well, why not, everything here was over the top.  
He had to sip his champagne, though without any pleasure. Returning his gaze to Gwendoline, he examined her costume, marveling fleetingly at how the fucking bitch was fitted in. With a figure like that, of course, no wonder. A leather bustier with slits, a wide belt all hung with chains and rings, tight shorts, with zips here and there. Her wrists were also covered in black leather bracelets, reaching almost to her elbows. Her legs were in fishnet stockings, black lacquer boots on her feet.  
The music didn't speed up, but somehow grew, and Gwendoline turned in profile and pressed her ass against one of her dance partners. She rested her outstretched arms on the steel shoulder of the other - and began rubbing her ass like a cat - if she'd had a tail, she'd have been sure to get it up. She turned her back to the public, hitting the rhythm and dancing, and twirled her black leather-clad ass, and one of the handsome men slapped her buttock. He even grabbed it and squeezed it, Nik could see it quite clearly.  
A moment's indignation rose in him, as if everything was really happening, and he immediately reassured himself: it was just a dance move, after all. What the hell?  
This place was definitely robbing him of some part of his adult self. Turned him into a hormone-pumped teenager.  
Meanwhile she was turned around to face the hall, dropped to her knees and crawled down the catwalk, smiling a dreamy, faint smile. That red lipstick, he thought. Damn you, Gwendoline.  
The boy dancer unhooked the leashes from her collar, one of the dancers stood over her as she rolled over onto her back. She lifted her ass off the platform and then lowered herself, throwing her legs over his shoulders. There was something oddly sickening and beautiful about it - those long white legs against a dark smooth skin, those fishnet stockings and scarlet ten-inch heels, and all together. The man spread her legs, slipped his boot between her thighs and lifted, or pretended to lift, her pelvis from the floor. Her head tilted back for a moment, a wry and triumphant smile flashed across her face.  
If they'd started fucking right there on the stage, Nik thought bitterly... no, he wouldn't have been surprised. He would have been sickened, and he would certainly have hated them - and himself, for watching. But he wouldn't have been surprised.  
She was lifted up, and again she began to rub herself against the man, and the man straightforwardly pressed his groin into her shameless bum. Occasionally he rewarded her with a light pat on her buttocks with a folded leash. She turned to face the other and, dancing, leaned backward. Her hair was almost touching the floor. He marvelled at her flexibility - marvelled and thought of it all with a kind of fascinated tenderness. Her neck arched like a taut bowstring. The palms of the man slid over her like huge dark butterflies, barely touching - her breasts, her stomach, her groin.  
The dancer lifted her up, holding her by the waist. Gwendoline leaned on his neck for a while, continuing to rub against him like a cat against catnip. Then he turned her around and gave her a slight nudge.  
Dancing, tantalisingly, yet strangely smoothly, she strode forward. The audience was already screaming at the top of their lungs. Nik looked at his hand resting on his knee. His fingers clenched into a fist.  
He had a hard-on, but that wasn't the biggest problem with what was going on. Gwendoline, having reached the edge of the platform, unzipped her tank top with a smug grin. Two sweet breasts appeared, entangled in thin straps. Her nipples reddened helplessly under that sadomasochistic harness. She turned and pulled the leather bustier off her shoulders. She tossed it under her feet and began to turn, spinning like a huge fast spinner, raising her arms above her head. Then she turned around, standing right over him, over an unhappy and bewildered Nik. She squatted down, spreading her knees wide. The hall filled with applause and shouts. She tightened her knees, and spread them again. Then she stood up. One of the dancers moved closer, pressed his lips to her neck, and her beautiful mouth opened in feigned pleasure. Nik felt a hit of gruesome anger.  
The dancer licked her delicate neck, then ran his lizard-like pink pointed tongue over his fingers and slipped them into her shorts. She jerked her hips, thrusting against the man's fingertips. The dancer slapped her ass like a blessing, grabbed her hair one last time, pulled her face to his and licked her temple. His hand squeezed her tiny titty - and let go.  
I should have left when all this started, Nik thought, why the fuck am I sitting here? But everyone in the room, except him, seemed to be enjoying this moron erotic spectacle along with this dumb chugging music. Everyone, including Gwendoline. She began to walk down the steps, down the stair which he had noticed the previous time.  
She walked carefully, and for a moment he imagined the bitch falling off her heels - he was the one sitting closest, and could easily have rushed to save her. He shuddered slightly at the hopelessness of these desires - and at their wickedness.  
She paced, knees high: and he thought he could hear the clang of her chains and the rivets on her collar. It was, of course, an audial hallucination, a game of imagination; the music was now hitting his ears in such a way that something inside his skull bounced and fell softly. Gwendoline stretched both arms upwards, the hall roared like an ocean, overriding even the basses. She walked straight to him, leaned over, lightly touching his shoulder. She smelled of flowers and innocence, and he froze, unsure: did she recognize him, or was it just another part of the show?  
The second answer: yes, he immediately sensed, when she barely glanced at his face with unseeing eyes and straightened up and walked on. A strap appeared in her hand. She approached the other men in the hall, playing with it like a horse stalk. No one tried to touch her, but she was allowed to touch everyone, which the slut took advantage of.  
Eventually her rounds around the hall ended by that couch where the birthday party was being celebrated. She smiled even wider. She stood in front of one of the men and started twisting with her ass. He stood up, a glass of champagne in one hand, a vape in the other. It smelled like weed, but apparently the dude had paid quite a lot or something. Nik watched as they danced together, hips joined, swaying, and finally she handed her strap to the dude, turned to him and leaned over, resting her hands on the table in front of her. The birthday boy slapped her ass lightly, crisscrosswise, then leaned over and kissed her leather-clad rear. Gwendoline, giggling, straightened up. She held up her hand. The music faded for a moment. The lights grew brighter.  
“Happy birthday, Kevin!” She shouted, and took the glass that was handed to her.  
It was hard to tell if she sipped it or just touched the glass with her lips. The company around her went wild with a shout. Then he recognized the man.  
He was a famous DJ, you could say one of the megastars in the business. A tall, handsome Englishman with a narrow and slightly sad face. He was young - handsome - rich - stoned - what else? His hands were covered with tattoos from shoulder to fingertips. And he had a crush on Gwendoline, one had to admit.  
Nik looked at the dancer guys clapping their hands on the stage. At their muscular abdomens, at their beautifully sculpted young faces. At the snow-white smiles that lit up their smug faces. Then glanced at Kevin, who was now hugging Gwendoline and taking selfies with her.  
He thought of his scrawny muscles under his shirt, of his torso, which was already covered in white and disgusting old fat. He felt sick of himself now again.  
The lights went out, and the music turned up anew. Gwendoline, moving in the spotlight, returned to the stage, enveloping him as she passed, with her fragrance - and also with the whiff of men's cologne, weed, champagne. She began to dance, probably in her final ecstasy. Her shorts flew off, revealing her leather knikers. She pulled them off, too, and he could see her pussy, packed in the sparse squares of fishnet pantyhose.  
The sight was obscene - and strangely arousing. She shook her head, wriggling out, got down on her knees, then on all fours. Her dancers buckled the straps on her collar, and so, on a leash like some huge and dangerous animal, she scooted her belly across the floor. She arched her back, arched her booty as if a fire was blazing beneath her. She turned and finished, turning her head over her shoulder, resting her head on her folded arms, looking straight into Nik's face.  
Her legs were spread wide, her mouth opened in delight - and suddenly the music stopped, the lights went out. She was hidden from everyone. Like some kind of treasure - or like a doll, just tucked away in a box from outsiders' eyes.  
He wished that these cuddling of her, cuddling with the other men had had some effect on the extent of his erection. But no. Apparently it was no use with Gwendoline, she would turn him on by the mere fact of her existence: even if she got fucked in all her holes by ten strangers. Ten. Or so.  
He glanced at the bottle of free booze and realized he'd finished it long ago. Called the waitress for more, something stronger. This Cristal he had never understood at all...  
The girl approached and bent down to him with a kindly smile. At that moment his phone beeped and bounced on the table.  
Dear Guest, our deepest apologies, your reservation:  
The private dance tonight at 9:30 p.m. Performance: Gwendoline  
has been cancelled.  
You can book another dancer if you'd like. Please click OK if you accept.  
He threw the phone on the table as if he had been burned.  
“What does it mean?” he asked the waitress.  
“I beg your pardon?”  
“The order has been cancelled. What the hell does that even mean?!”  
He sounded hysterical and inadequate even to his own ears.  
She smiled sympathetically but knowingly:  
“It happens, sir. I can communicate to the administration...”  
“What exactly?” he interrupted, flinching with annoyance.  
“Excuse me?”  
“What do you want to tell them?”  
She pressed her lips together in confusion. He felt pity for the girl, who obviously had nothing to do with the bullshit that had happened. If there was one thing he was proud of in his life, it was that he'd never, not once, attacked the staff, especially the ones who couldn't stand up for themselves.  
“Forget it," he covered his eyes, “two tequilas.”  
Another show began, this time with some girls at the pole. Soon he was so drunk that the world wobbled and swung with their half-naked asses.  
Finally, he got so wasted that he called the waitress and told her to bring someone from the administration to him. The same hostess who had been there the last time came in. He asked why his booking had been cancelled and she looked at her Ipad and said with an expression of the greatest favor:  
“This booking has been cancelled because another customer made a request.”  
“Excuse me? Are you running an auction? You mean Gwendoline is kind of… just like a commodity in the auction or what?”  
“First of all, Mr. ...”  
He was silent, he did not want to tell her his name.  
“First of all, sir," she began again. “Our dancers are definitely not commodities. They choose their own clients. That is our rule. And secondly, obviously, in the case of selection preference will be given to a regular customer with a higher rating.”  
“Rating? What the heck is that?”  
“The history of our interactions with a particular customer.”  
“Yours interactions. Hmm. You mean, if someone pays more... But yet you said it’s not the auction, eh?”  
“It's about more than just the size of the invoice.”  
“Then I don't understand at all...”  
She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. He was beginning to annoy her, and maybe even from the past visit. Then, smiling wickedly, the hostess explained:  
“You see, if we're talking about tonight - tonight is our regular visitor's birthday party. The dancers have chosen to work the party on their own.”  
“And Gwendoline too?”  
The hostess was silent, making it clear she had no intention of explaining any more.  
“You are some nasty bitches.”  
Later he thought he'd said it out loud, but it was probably only a drunken thought. He walked towards the exit, pondering sadly how he was going to drive, he was so drunk.  
He would have to call the guard. The lad used to work as his chauffeur from time to time. Which was very helpful, especially since in a taxi he, being like that and in that mood it was risked making a fountain of vomit all over the cabin.  
The guy arrived as Nik sat meekly behind the wheel of his car, smoking a joint he'd found in the glove compartment. He hadn't planned joint at all. Though maybe he had planned, he didn't have much certainty about anything now. He just sat there, looking out over the car park at the back of the long building that housed the fucking club. The blues was playing on the radio, healing his ears after that wild chug to which the slut was rubbing her bum against all the guys in the audience.  
All of them? Except you, said the voice in his head.  
Except you, Nik, and you know why.  
Of course he knew why. He just didn't want to think about it, especially now that he'd already screwed up, screwed up so spectacularly.  
“Can you let me in, boss?” The guard knocked on his window, he woke up a little - and put down the glass. Crawled to the back seat and there, like a dead turtle, he collapsed with his head resting back. ”Going home?”  
“Hold on.” Nik said hoarsely.  
“All right.”  
“Let's just stay here. Just for... I don't know. Ten minutes.”  
“Sure," a quick glance at his watch. Nik knew, not without some regret, that he'd have to pay overtime, but... it didn't really matter anymore. “No problem. Whatever you say. When you are ready.”  
“I'm really fucked.”  
“Yeah, I see.”  
“Fucked as shit.”  
“Yeah, I can see that.”  
He started laughing, then sobbed - and then stopped. Tears of self-pity were about to spurt from his eyes, and only the presence of a staff somehow kept him from a total drunken tantrum. He rested his elbow on the open window of the car and lit a cigarette.  
Yes, he had quit a few years ago. They say you can't quit smoke. Well, you can. Till the first stress, and that's it.  
“Today is the birthday of...”  
He said the name of the DJ.  
“Yeah?" the security guard asked him indifferently. “Is this for sure?”  
“There was a celebration at the club. Did you know?”  
“I have no idea when someone's birthday is. I even forget my wife's sometimes," the guard laughed. “Which, of course, is no bloody good, sir.”  
“It's awful.”  
“His music's good though.”  
“Yeah.”  
He was silent, sensing that he was about to talk about Gwendoline, to spill everything, cover her and his name with eternal shame. A miserable cuckold, Joe would say, and Joe would be partly right.  
He dangled his cigarette out the window, flicking the ash onto the pavement.  
The back door swung open, casting a bright yellow light on the dark pavement. There were quick footsteps, women's laughter. He saw several girls jumping out, wrapped in coats and jackets, some smoking as they went, others busily adjusting the bags on their shoulders, putting headphones in their ears, shaking their long hair gathered in ponytails. They kissed each other on the cheeks, chattered excitedly, then fled in different directions like little birds. The car park became deserted. He felt sad. Gwendoline wasn't among them.  
Could it be that she was... Well, in the simplest terms, she is just fucking this Kevin guy now?  
He thought about it, not even jealously, but somehow hopelessly, helplessly. He smoked a second one, ignoring the worried glances the guard threw in the rear-view mirror. He imagined her arching beneath his young and firm body, his tattooed hands roaming over her smooth skin, those ink-covered fingers twisting her delicate nipples.  
It all was very sobering. He got out of the car and leaned against the bonnet to breathe in the cold, damp foggy air. There was something rustling in the rubbish bins, maybe the wind was moving the wrappers - or there were rats snooping around. Who knows.  
The door swung open again, letting a group of people into the fresh air. They were cheering, laughing, and he heard, relieved and even pleased, Gwendoline's warm and gentle voice. He turned around. She was walking, pulling on a short coat as she went, and under it he noticed a gray T-shirt and blue jeans rolled up to her ankles. On her feet she wore white sneakers. A black sports backpack hung on her shoulder.  
She looked so casual and everyday that he wanted to take her in a hug and peck her cheek in a friendly fashion.  
“Please, please, please, baby, stay.”  
She turned to the lad, who walked behind her like he was glued to her.  
“It's late," she said through a smile. “I have to go now. Honestly, it's about time for bed.”  
“Stay, he'll be upset. You’ll piss him off if you go.”  
“I know. I understand. But, I'm awfully sorry...”  
“You know this is what he wanted so much.”  
“I really need to get home," she paused and yanked up the backpack that was slipping off her shoulder. Then she glanced quickly over his shoulder and backed away.  
Nik looked, too. Out of the door came the troublemaker himself, barely on his feet, clinging to the doorway with both lanky hands. Kevin swayed, and yet, spotting Gwendoline, he rocked, as if to give himself some acceleration and direction. And then he rushed towards her with a tenacity and quickness completely unsuited to his condition.  
“Hey," he called out. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Where are you going? God, Gwen... Why do you always have to mess everything up?”  
“I really have to go," she said, gently and firmly, like talking to a child.  
“Don't... gotta go. Don't go. Let's have another drink. I've got something...”  
“Seriously, Kevin. Come back to your party.”  
“It's... you know... this party is so lame. Coz... There's er... there's no you around," Kevin said with a wry grin, coming close to her. “Give me your hand. I'll show you one thing...”  
She pulled away, but he took a step toward her and staggered toward her, almost falling over. He cursed. His friends began to pull him back, urging him on, even shouting some sort of congratulatory greeting. Gwendoline stood motionless, the light was falling on her from the club door, and in this light she looked rather lost, sad and anxious.  
“Oh. Gwen, come on, please. Stop this bloody nonsense, baby!”  
“You've been drinking," she said cautiously, of course implying: "you're shitfaced drunk."  
This Kevin the DJ also seemed to have been using something. He acted simultaneously lethargic and excited, defiant and pleading, the kind of cocktail that happens when a person is hyped up with all the substances at hand.  
“A little bit. Is that why you're leaving? Are you mad about it?”  
“No. I'm not mad. It's your birthday after all.”  
“Yes! And I'm entitled!”  
“Of course," she nodded softly.  
“Yeah. No need to act like some… passive aggressive snob. You’re not a queen, just a cheap stripper, you know that, baby?”  
Nik decided she didn't want to piss Kevin off, she acted like she's been trying to make things up to him somehow. His friends kept jumping around like a pack of baboons. Some played music on their phones, some had messages beeping. Someone was answering the phone, someone was swearing and laughing. One guy started smoking a joint and passed it on to others.  
“Do you want cash?” It suddenly dawned on a frowning Kevin's face.  
She answered quietly and sharply. Kevin started to giggle.  
“Bitch," he said in a loud, pathetic voice. “You're such a bloody fucking cunt!”  
Again she answered, lowering her voice, apparently seriously fearing a rowdy situation. Then she turned to face the Kevin's eleven pals:  
“You can see that..." she spoke more quietly. Then finished. “Come on? Get back in the hall. Take him inside.”  
“Or what?” asked the one who was smoking weed.  
“Can I pick you up with us? I ain't touched your sweet booty yet," sniggered the other one. “Everybody did, but not me.”  
“Loser,” the third responded. “She was letting everyone touch that enormous bum tonight.”  
But one of them, who was not lacking in sanity, had gone somewhere.  
Things were taking a nasty turn, Nik knew that already. Kevin still wouldn't get off Gwendoline's back, and he was grouchy and grumpy, now insulting her, now pleading with her, calling her all sorts of disgusting, sugary words. He promised money, gifts, Lamborghinis and other brands, probably catching his wave. A man with the intelligence of an oyster consists only of brand names, and in his empty brain they roll around, flying around like multi-coloured candy wrappers, that's all. All someone like Kevin has to offer at tne end of the day.  
She kept moving away from her assaulter, taking small steps backwards, until she tripped and nearly flew onto the asphalt.  
Nik got out from behind the car, moving towards them:  
“Hey. Is everything all right here?”  
Gwendoline, poor thing, turned around, and he noticed the momentary panic on her face. She must have thought: “oh here we go! The last I need, this Danish motherfucker.”  
Kevin, who'd grabbed her sleeve when she'd nearly fallen, was still there, clutching at her arm. He slid an unseeing gaze over Nik, then looked at the woman.  
“Do you need help?” Nik asked, turning to the least drunk part of the audience, aka Gwendoline.  
She blinked a few times and it was obvious that yes, she needs some help, but no, please don't interfere.  
Kevin and Gwen. An odd pair. They were almost the same height, especially since Gwen no longer wore heels. And yet Kevin was slightly shorter. Maybe it sobered him somehow - or, conversely, turned him on, it was hard to tell. Maybe her patient and compassionate kindness made him angry. Nik could sympathize with the jerk: he'd had that painful feeling himself, wanting to scream at her coldness and cry at her warmth. All together.  
Gwendoline shook her shoulder cautiously. With the delicacy of an asylum nurse she was trying to get rid of Kevin. Apparently she wasn't too impressed with the mention of Lamborghini, or she was just too intimidated by Kevin’s blatant pressure.  
“It's okay," she murmured to Nik over the head of the drunken DJ. “We're fine.”  
"Really?” He grinned venomously.  
And he thought, “We are”, for fuck's sake. You're a fuckin' bitch, or a stupid fucking cunt, or whatever he called you, aren't you? But I guess it was worth it, huh?”  
He immediately regretted his unfair cynicism.  
She put her fingers on Kevin's tattooed palm and gently, like a mother trying to take a stolen toy from her little boy at the supermarket, pulled, trying to unclench his fingers. Kevin stared into her face with a blazing gaze, then hissed:  
“Bitch, who do you think you are anyway? You're a cheap whore, aren't you? Have you forgotten your place?”  
That was the last thing Nik wanted to hear. He jumped toward them, pushing Kevin in the shoulder, and Kevin tilted, very dangerously, losing his balance and maybe his sense of space altogether. He let go of the dancer, though. Released, Gwen bounced back clasping her hands to her mouth. It was clear that the delicate balance of the scandal had finally swung in the direction of a slaughter. The axe of war, figuratively speaking, had been dug up, and it was Nik who dug it up.  
Kevin swayed, bent in half, then straightened up, examined Gwen with the resentful suspicion of a ferret who had been prevented from committing petty theft. He hadn't noticed Nik, and quite possibly hadn't even associated any of his adventures, including nearly falling face-first into the concrete, with Nik’s presence.  
The next moment, Kevin swung around and slapped her across the face. Nik didn't even have time to think, let alone do anything. Someone in the stoned company had turned on the music a second before - the same terrible track that had been playing there at the club while Gwen was dancing on the leash. The music bounced around the yard.  
He turned, seeing his guard running towards him. Gwen froze, staring somewhere far, pressing her shaking fingers to her cheek. Nik grabbed her and jerked her aside, extremely just in time: Kevin's fist pierced the air where her unhappy shocked face had been a moment ago.  
He let go of the startled Gwen, stepped forward, shielding her, and grabbed Kevin by the collar. Jolting the lad a few times, he put his fist up, and then all Kevin's friends and a couple of security guards from the club hung on the troublemaker. Finally the security personnel had deigned to show up, he thought, grinning. It was so fucking late, though.  
And Kevin spotted him at least. His bloodshot, iris-white eyes darted into Nick's face with an inexplicable and strange delight. He raised his fists in excitement and was immediately dragged back. Nik was being dragged by someone too, probably by his own guard. The music kept screaming, everything lasted very fast and terribly slow. Kevin was kicking and struggling, so they had to bend his arms backward and generally treat him like the worst kind of hobo in a cheap pub.  
Nik was pulled back and then he finally noticed Gwendoline. Poor thing was shifting from one foot to another near the rubbish bins. He could hear her soft muttering, "Please stop. Stop it. Kevin, stop it. Stop it, all of you!", but it was certainly just some post disaster aftershock.  
At least she had the self-respect not to throw herself at Nik, not to scratch his face defending her abuser, he thought, brushing the guard's hands off his shoulder. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his palms and forehead. Gwen scowled at him, then slowly touched the spot on her cheekbone where the mark of the blow had started to bloom dark-pink.  
She turned around and staggered away, completely silent and clearly still in some kind of fright.  
"Let's get in the car, boss," his guard commanded.  
Yes, the evening had ceased to be uneventful.  
"Wait a minute."  
"What?!" the guy exclaimed with an expression of utmost condemnation.  
"Drive behind. Follow me, wait for me. Slowly," Nik commanded, and, not giving himself time to change his mind, he rushed after Gwen.


	4. Chapter 4

He chased her down a couple of blocks. He had to make a quick sprint or two, because he ducked into a mini-mart and bought a bottle of ice-cold water and picked up a glass of ice.   
Gwen strode at even pace, from the back it looked like she was just walking hurriedly: you know, going about her normal business, back still, head held high. She was perfectly visible in the crowd, and, yes, he was glad that she was so tall.   
She wasn't stumbling or turning around nervously, or running. Nothing of the sort. And yet it seemed she was shrouded in a cloud of unhappiness, it was hard to explain it, to taste it, but he could feel it. A kind of desolation, the tumbled world of a person who was being chased by misery. He caught up with her at the crossroads, where she froze, waiting patiently for the traffic lights to flash.  
He stood beside her, his shoulder barely touching her arm. Without turning her head, she said:  
“You cannot stalk me.”  
“I'm not... No, please let me explain.”  
“Don't follow me.”  
“Okay.”  
He walked beside her anyway, she began to squint at him sideways, her anxiety was visibly growing with each step. He said, taking the handkerchief out of his pocket and leaning the neck of the bottle against it:  
“Here. It's cold water. Here you go. Put it to your cheek…”  
He handed her the tumbler of ice, she glanced at it in amazement, then thought it through and leaned it against her cheek. He could hear the ice clinking against the cardboard walls of.  
“Take the handkerchief too.”   
“Don't - no, no.”  
“Please, Gwendoline.”  
At the sound of her name she hesitated somehow and he turned to say something encouraging to cheer her up. And he just could not. He looked around, saw his car moving along the pavement, and Gwen turned around too, followed his gaze.  
“Don't follow me, please. You don't have to do this," she repeated bluntly.   
“I'm not going. I'm not to follow you, just beside you.”  
She swept her eyes over his head, and suddenly her face twisted, her chin quivering.   
“Hey, it's okay... Oh, please, listen to me!”  
Gwendoline walked ahead a little, her backpack falling off her shoulder and hanging on her elbow. She stared ahead of her with stubborn confusion. Then some convulsive waves ran down her face - he glanced at her delicate profile. It was quite excruciating to look at. Her chin was covered in tiny dimples as she bit her lip. He could see that her lips were quivering.   
Her shock must have started to wear off, awareness set in.   
She turned and stepped away, so sharply that he almost lost her, she pushed the people on the pavement aside and ducked somewhere between the buildings. Nik caught up with her, or rather, just walked up to her - she was standing against a brick wall in the alley. The wind churning the black plastic and empty junk food boxes along a path. She turned to face the wall and covered her face with her palms. Her shoulders were shaking. And then Gwendoline leaned her hands against the bricks and began to sob softly.   
He didn't know what tore his heart more - that silent anguish, or the whole sight of her, previously seeming enormous, strong, serene, beautiful, seductive - and now so pathetic, so utterly defenseless. She whimpered softly, her backpack still dangling at her elbow, then she moved her hand, and the backpack fell to the ground with a quiet slap.   
“Gwendoline," Nik began helplessly.  
There was something moving against the far wall in the darkness, and he squinted, oh, damned his short-sightedness, and peered at it. A homeless man was beginning to creep up on them, probably he was sleeping in his cozy corner until the uninvited guests arrived. Just in case, Nik picked up a backpack from the pavement. The homeless man sighed - and retreated, hiding himself away in a pile of bad-smelling blankets. London, thought Nik. It's rare to have anyone leave you alone, certainly not on the streets, no. It's always been so crowded here, a horrendously crowded city.   
Gwendoline cried softly, whimpering in the process, pressing herself all the way into the wall and trembling. He wanted to soothe her somehow, to comfort her, but he just stood there, afraid to even touch her flinching blades, flinching as if they'd been whipped by an invisible stick. Her coat was stretched across her broad back, her head ducked, her hair parted over the collar, blond strands on the dark gray and coarse wool: such a painful contrast.  
“Gwen," he said, calling again. “Please. Don't be so... Look at me. Please. Look at me.”  
She turned, and he could see her wet face, her tear-darkened lashes, the reddened tip of her cute nose, her mouth curled down in a sob. This terrible image was so new to him, and so frightening, and so mesmerizing, and so heartbreaking.   
“Shh," he stepped toward her and stood, putting his hand on the wall to shield her from the street, which was running its own path just a few yards away. “It is all over, it will be over soon. You’ll feel better, I promise. Hush. Hush. Shh... Gwendoline.”  
She took the handkerchief he'd pulled from his pocket again and pressed it to her pain-stricken face. She hiccupped suddenly, and next moment immediately sobbed, choking back her tears.  
“Hey. Listen. Listen to me carefully. I know it was all awful, I know it was all just... fucked up and ugly and creepy," he said softly. “But... Gwendoline. Please, he's not worth it. None of them are worth your tears.”  
“I... I am," she said in a broken, gurgling voice. She turned her eyes to the sky and opened her mouth, her nose making sniffling, noisy noises. “I'm so... I'm so sorry.”  
“Don’t be. I'm the one who's sorry," Nik said eagerly. “It's not your fault, I saw everything, I know everything. Not your fault.”  
“I'm so... “  
She couldn't finish the sentence, maybe even her whole thought.   
“Put it to your cheek," he said, seeing that she put her hand down, crumpling his miserable handkerchief. “Gwendoline. Look. You have every right to be confused and... in general, to feel anything you want to and need to, after what happened. Jesus. I'm completely freaked the fuck out myself. Hey. It's all right. It's okay. Don't be scared, nothing to be ashamed of. Shh. I'm here, I'm next to you.”   
And he moved closer to her, and, seeing that she didn't move, didn't flee again in fear, he moved a little more - and almost touched her temple with his lips. He whispered again:  
“I'm with you. Hey. I'm right here, next to you.”  
She squeezed her eyes shut, mumbled something, and then fell silent, her tears flooding out again. Apparently he hadn't succeeded in the art of comforting weeping ladies (oh, he certainly had not -the voice in his head, his ex-wife's voice, filled with bitterness and anger).   
She wore that perfume of hers, an enchanting, delicate scent. From her closeness, from the warmth of her skin, from the moisture that ran down her cheeks and rolled down her neck, the fragrance grew stronger and deeper. And it made his head spin. There was a stirring in his groin and he immediately hated himself.   
What kind of man was he after all? A sick pervert, really.  
Nik drew even closer, and Gwen, opening her teary eyes, jerked her back against the wall somehow restlessly, shrugged her shoulders anxiously. He stepped back at once, raising both hands:  
“No, no. I'm not touching you. Not touching you, see?”  
“Ma'am?” A croaky voice came from the pile of blankets. “Is everything all right in there, ma'am? Do you need any help?”  
“Shut up," he turned around in annoyance.   
Now that's something of an achievement, huh? Showing up as a rapist to some rubbish pile hobo. Gwendoline began to calm down, sighing noisily and throwing her head back. She wiped her cheeks with her long fingers, then squatted somehow helplessly and froze, sniffing her nose.   
“Ma'am? Can you hear me?”  
“Get off already," Nik barked, but rather confused.   
Gwendoline had long overdue that right, to call the police or something. Including his, Nik's, behavior, everything today was against her - and against all human reason. Stalking, harassment, physical abuse. Just some fucking bingo.  
“I'm not talking to you, asshole” the tramp said.  
“Leave her alone. Get away from us.”  
He thought he just looked like a character in some creepy dramedy, getting into an arguing session with a hobo. Gwendoline sat with her long arms hanging helplessly off her knees, staring at one point. Then, as if awakened, she began to unfold a handkerchief and put it to her cheeks.  
“Want some more water? - he asked, looking at the top of her fair-haired head. He desired to hug her, kiss her, kiss those sweet-smelling, delicate curls, and her wet cheeks, and say something to make it all right, to fix everything, all of it. “Please, drink some water. You'll be hiccuping.”  
She turned her huge eyes, now rimmed in red, and stared up at him with her mouth open.  
“My daughters used to hiccup when they were little. When they cried a lot.”  
Gwendoline silently took the outstretched bottle and took a few small sips. Then she sighed noisily and began to rise, adjusting her clumsy outfit.  
“I'm sorry," she said suddenly. “I shouldn't have...”  
“No, it's all right, Gwendoline.”  
“I have to go. I'm terribly sorry for this... for... for everything.”   
“You have nothing to feel sorry for.”  
“I screwed up so badly.”  
“You didn't. You were being brave, and you did the right things, and...”  
I'm the one who's messed up, he thought sullenly. And basically, the next question she would ask is: what the fuck were you even doing there, Nik, or whatever your name is?   
After you should have just left the club? And, lest she start asking him, Nik hurriedly said:  
“I’ve been there just a few minutes before you came out. I just wanted to clear my head before I had to leave. Had a few too many drinks, that sort of thing.”  
She twitched her nose:  
“Yeah? I can see that.”  
“Honestly, it's all gone by now. Kevin is... sobering.”  
She stared at him with round eyes for a moment, then smiled weakly.   
“He's not like that, not usually," she sighed, blowing her nose in the handkerchief and tucking it into her pocket with an apologetic look. “Not that we're close acquaintances. But he's always behaved with dignity. It was a bad idea to arrange this birthday party for him. It was a bad idea for me to agree to work for him, too.”  
She was quiet, staring at the toes of her Converse. Then she said quietly, putting her hands behind her back:  
“It was your booking that was cancelled, wasn't it”  
“Yes.”  
“I was wrong to choose the cancel.”  
“It doesn't matter," he assured her, too hot and passionate, though. “It's... I don't think that...”  
“Nik, right?” She lifted her head, pulling a loose strand away from her face. “Nik?”  
“N-I-k," he nodded happily for whatever reason. “As in 'Nikolaj'.”  
“Is that a Danish name?”  
Danish. You remember that too, he wanted to exclaim excitedly. But instead, he said:  
“Well, yeah… it's quite popular in my country.”  
“It's very beautiful.”  
“So is Gwendoline.”  
She looked at the wall behind him.   
“It means ‘fair bow’," her smile was still shy and unsure. “In... in Welsh.”  
“Is that? I didn't know.”  
“I always say something out of place," she informed him with a sad chuckle. “Don't mind me. I've got to go, Nik. Nikolaj.”  
She stressed his name, as if to distinguish it from so many others. Well, or maybe it was the unrighteous hope in him. Hope for who knows what? He suppressed the urge to grab her sleeve.   
“Look. There. It's in the street. There' s my car. My driver will take you home. Do you mind?”  
Gwen shook her head sadly:  
“Thank you. I'll manage on my own.”  
“But it won't oblige you in any way. Well... Gwen, you're not taking the Tube like that, are you?”   
She touched her cheek. He saw the bruise begin to show, a thin, purplish-grey streak under her eye.   
“I'll call a taxi.”  
“I understand," he nodded. “It's all so understandable...”  
“Nik,” she said softly. “Listen. Harassing girls is forbidden. And we're also strictly forbidden to give clients our address. And clients are strictly...”  
He raised his hands again:  
“I got it, I got it, okay. But there is no problem, you know? You come out wherever you want. A couple of blocks, by the Tube station, wherever you want. Won't take you straight to your house.”   
She was silent, looking at him sideways.  
“I suppose beating up girls is strictly forbidden, too," he said quietly. “Isn't it?”  
Silence.  
“They'll keep the case quiet, won't they?”  
She shrugged, as if to say: you ought to know better, since you are the client.  
“I know. So it will be. Well then… let’s break a rule, as they’ll likely break another, too. Sounds fair? Okay, let’s go now.”  
Gwendoline stared at the ground in front of her the whole time. He felt sorry for her.  
“I only want to help. I'm not going to force you.”  
She cast a quick glance at the car parked by the pavement. There were fewer people on the streets, and it was past midnight.  
“My legs don't fit... usually," she made another feeble attempt to escape.  
“We'll figure something out. Come on. Here. There you go. Your backpack.”  
Opening the door for her, he let her sit in the back seat, and then, bending over, began pushing the seat in front. Gwen sat quiet as a mouse, staring out the window.   
“Better?” he asked.  
“Boss, let me do it better," his chauffeur voiced.  
“No, no, it's all right. It's all right," she murmured fearfully.   
Nik, pleased with the way things were shaping up, sat down in front. He told her to buckle up like she was a confused child and, under the bewildered gaze of his guard, finally buckled up himself. Gwendoline named the Tube station, and they set off.  
The conversation didn't go well; she sat very tense and quiet, probably wondering if she'd been captured by the two sex offenders. Nik tried his best to cheer her up, but his old-fashioned dad jokes (“Want to hear a joke about construction? I'm still working on it!” – when they drove past some big construction areas) seemed to make the air in the cabin just swell with the growing tension.  
Near the Tube station as soon as the car stopped, she jumped out, frantically running down the pavement along the light-filled, cheap eateries. He caught up with her, and she looked back, almost comically terrified.  
“Just making sure everything's okay.”  
“I'm fine, Nik.”  
“Good.”  
They stood facing each other, and there was an awkward pause.  
“What are you going to do?” he finally asked.  
“Me?" she gave him a confused look. “Well, I haven't had dinner yet. I'll eat something.”  
“Here?" He pointed sarcastically at the hot dog stand.   
“Why not?” she shrugged. “Believe it or not, I'm starving.”  
“And that's a good thing.”  
“In what way?”  
“That you've come to your senses," he clarified, blushing. “Not in the sense that starving to death is a good thing.”  
He started to cough to hide up the end of his phrase, he felt so stupid and corny. She walked into the diner, and he followed. While Gwen bought a giant hot dog, he perused the menu, trying not to grumble under his breath. She said:  
“Would you like some?”  
“No, I...”  
He was used to healthy and nutritious food, but for some reason now it seemed terribly snobbish to say so. Gwendoline, with a forlorn look, sat down at the wobbly table and began unwrapping her order.  
“If the view disgusts you, don't look" she advised, and then she sink her strong white teeth into the bun.  
Nik stared at her, marveling at how pretty she was, even when she was eating that crap. She took a sip from her tea cup and chewed silently, vigorously, and it was obvious that it was the only thing she had the strength for. Once again he felt sorry for her - and for himself, stuck in this cheap diner in the middle of a cheap area. Still, he horrendously didn't want to leave.  
“Hey," he said, holding up a finger. “Shh. Do you hear that?”  
Gwen blinked in surprise. She was chewing with her incisors, which was also very sweet, in his personal opinion. Oddly cute.  
“What?" she asked with a full mouth.  
“Shh. If you listen closely, the orchestral, contemporary soundtrack of some art-house about no meaning life is playing in the background. Existential hopelessness and abiding loneliness.”  
Gwen wrinkled her nose, then burst into laughter. She barely had time to swallow, otherwise she risked choking.  
There he heard her laugh. No, not silver bells for sure, and fuck them. Her laughter was bright and huge, like she herself, and seemed to fill the whole world. And gave everything a warmth and life. He began to laugh with her.   
Calming down, she pulled a paper napkin from the dispenser and pressed it to her eyes.   
“Sorry. I'm sorry, my tears are running. I can't control it.”  
“It's all right, Gwendoline. Gwen.”  
Her name rolled around on his tongue like a delicate sweetness, some sort of curiously delicious treat. She brushed her hair back from her forehead and began to wrestle with the hot dog again. It looked like she'd ordered some XXL size, he thought with dusky amusement. Loves the big ones, eh?   
The joke didn't seem decent to him either, and he didn't say it out loud.   
Gwen was quiet again, chewing and swallowing, and drinking the hot tea carefully. She drank with her lips pursed neatly, like a small child. She looked so different from herself - the other Gwen, the dancer at the club - that he wondered if there was some kind of shape-shifting, some kind of trick, some kind of illusion.   
“You're very talented," he said to break the silence. “Yes, I'm serious. You're such a gem. Such a unique individual.”  
She glanced at him incredulously. He fidgeted embarrassedly, his Hugo Boss suit rubbing the dirty plastic of the chairs, his hands not knowing where to put them at all. He clasped and clutched them in front of him, feeling his lostness and his age especially keenly.   
“Your dances were like... So stunning, it was all amazing, Gwendoline. And you... You're inexpressibly special and brilliant and...”  
Nik fell silent under her frustrated gaze. She didn't say anything, didn't argue or thank him, and it was clear that she was appalled rather than offended or pleased by his praise.  
“What had happened, though. You just have to know that I... I don't think it's okay, I think it's dangerous and not right, disgusting may I say, and it shouldn't be that way. It shouldn't be.”  
She stuck out the tip of her tongue and ran it nervously over her upper lip. Only now did he notice that her tender lip was a bit parted by a barely visible scar.   
“Occupational hazards," she remarked dryly, averting her eyes to the side. “Not very pleasant, but there are risks in every profession. May I ask, what do you do for a living, Nik? Do you work in the City?”  
“No. I’m like in… in show business.”  
“Oh, really?”  
“I'm an actor. Well, actually... I use to be. Now I'm a director, also doing things by myself, you know, like writing scripts, producing and so on.”  
She raised her eyebrows in amazement.  
“You've never seen...”  
He told her a few titles of films and TV series. Gwendoline shook her head quite sincerely: no. She seemed genuinely upset by that fact.  
“Well, I've got a long way to go before I'm as famous as Brad Pitt," he joked awkwardly, "never mind. Promise not to Google me. It'll be humiliating, honestly.”  
“Look, and you, too... Promise me you won't follow me again," she blurted out suddenly.  
It was hard to tell if it had been running through her pretty little head the whole time, or if, at the mention of his profession, she'd decided that she'd had enough dubious adventures for one day. Especially with showbiz guys.   
“I'm not going to track down your house, stalk you, that sort of thing, if that's what you mean," he said cautiously. “I was worried about you, that's all.”  
“No need. I can look after myself.”  
“I'm sure you can.”  
She huffed at her tea bag for a while, holding it up by a string. Then she muttered:  
“Thank you, though. You... Probably if he'd hit again, or harder, I'd have been stay out of a job for weeks. You... saved me.”  
Nik felt his heart quicken its steps, almost rush.  
“Anyone would have..." he began. Then became angry with himself and tried again. “Come on. It was... I should have come to help sooner.”   
“Knight in shining armor," she murmured with a faint smile. She seemed gentle and calm again, her cheeks were rosy, her eyes, those lovely blue eyes were looking with a haze, but also very attentive and affectionate. One eye, when she looked close to herself, squinted slightly, giving her gaze something playful and childlike.   
If it hadn't been for that bruise on her cheekbone, she would have seemed like an angel, gentle, humble and easygoing. He remembered again how this same woman had danced and wriggled around, stripping off everything but her fishnet stockings - and was struck again by the contrast and fusion.   
Shit, she really was a rarity, a curiosity: and fucking tempting in that haunting duality.  
“A Knight," he repeated stupidly. “Funny thing is, I just played a knight in a series. It was a part that drank a lot of my blood. And it even was not a vampire saga.”  
“Did it? Why?" she amused. Gwen rested her chin on the back of her palm. “Was it hard?”  
“More like long, which is kinda… exhausting. And it was too... everything was too much.”  
“A noble knight," she said, nodding. “A dream role for so many, I suppose.”  
“Probably," he agreed grudgingly. “But to say true… That guy was sleeping with his sister.”  
She smirked and snorted, but didn't seem too surprised.  
“I don't watch much television," she admitted. “I like reading and old movies.”  
“How old?”  
She listed a few for him; they were arthouse masterpieces from the eighties and nineties, and he decided that Gwendoline was a cute little British snob, but still she was...   
Okay, not "little." And not a "snob." But cute, I'll give you that.  
They talked about movies for a while, and agreed that they liked a lot of things the same way. This was pleasing to him. Then he, twitching again, and seeing her rummaging through her backpack and reading messages on her phone, asked:  
“Gwendoline. I'll ask that question, but you... You just have to know that I'm only asking it because I'm worried about you. I really do. And you don't have to answer. You don't have to say anything at all. Okay? You have every right to.”  
She looked up from the phone, thoughtful.  
“Do you live alone? Is there someone? Do you have someone to take care of you?”  
Gwendoline was silent, her nostrils beginning to flare, and he realized he'd screwed up big and bad. He waved his hands in the air, spreading his fingers, making unnecessary gestures:  
“I told you, you didn't have to answer. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I apologize. I didn't mean to mess with your privacy.”  
“I'm renting a place with a boyfriend," she said completely calmly. “No, I don't live alone.”  
Whether she lied to get rid of him or not, he still felt grateful. Just for the fact that she hadn't told him to fuck off. And, relieved, he blurted it out:  
“Okay. That's good. I'm very glad for you! Well, and as to me… I live alone, I am divorced, and the children live... sometimes with me, but it happens so that more often with my ex-wife, and I...”  
He fell silent, not knowing how to finish or why he was telling her all this shit in the first place. Gwendoline sat a minute with her head tilted to her shoulder, then slipped her phone into her pocket, stood up and slung her backpack over her shoulder.  
“It was nice to meet you, Nik," she said softly. “And now it's getting late. And I have to go.”  
He started to get up, and, under her startled gaze, he stopped immediately.  
“I'm not following you, Gwen, no, no.”  
She stepped back, keeping her suspicious blue eyes on him.  
“Goodbye then, Nik. Nicholaj.”  
“But we'll see each...”  
She turned and walked away, pushed open the glass door - and disappeared into the darkness.   
But we will see each other again? he thought helplessly. We will, won't we? Right?  
He dreamed, a few days later, that she hugged him and pressed her lips to his temple. Her hands were strong and smooth, but also gentle. He wanted to say something to her, but she whispered: shh, shh. I'm here, I'm here for you. And she began to kiss him, short and innocent kisses, his temple, his cheekbone, his cheek, his neck, his collarbone - and so she went with those kisses lower and lower, and he lay there, afraid to move and to frighten her. Even in his sleep he knew it was only a dream. Tormented and torn between wanting to punish himself - for it was only a dream - and wanting to reward himself - and even if it be nothing but a dream. But when her lips touched the skin just below his navel, he heard a distant humming, insistent, like a bumblebee's flight. At first, he couldn't figure out what it was. Then he opened his eyes and found himself in his bedroom.   
No Gwendoline next to him. Right.  
The phone on the nightstand beside the bed bounced a couple of times, gurgled a final chord - and froze.  
He picked it up and looked at the message. Opened it, chilling with anticipation. It was a mark from a strip club app. Most likely his membership would be revoked, he'd be kicked out of there, kicked out after the story with Kevin, because a lot of people had seen him there, and of course...  
Dear guest. We offer our deepest apologies for the cancellation of your booking. As compensation, we are offering you a Gift from our club, click OK if you are comfortable.  
Private dance, performed by: Gwendoline.  
Next there were the date and time marks.  
He ran his hand over his face.

Bitches, he thought, grinning wickedly. Is this even... what? A bribe for him for not fucking deface that Kevin? Or a gesture to keep Nik's mouth shut forever?   
And is it Gwendoline they offer as compensation, as a bonus for his patience - as a reward?  
Or is it a gift - from Gwendoline?

That's so fucking sickening sweet. Sugar coma, my ass.  
But, he reached for the phone and, not thinking further, pressed OK.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: Billie Eilish - Ocean Eyes

He got up from the sofa when Gwen walked in, just jumped to his feet, not sure why. He must have been nervous again. He could get used to it by now, the neurotic motherfucker. But no: it was as new every time as it would ever be if he (for example) had his memory wiped the fuck out.  
He thought: maybe I wasn't used to her size yet. She appeared each time as a bewildering creature, knocking the ground out from under him with her size, with her unspeakable - and somehow unpredictable - beauty.  
You could remember it, you could admire it, you could image it from your memory: but here you saw it in reality, and... it was as if you were doing it all over again. It was as if everything was starting from zero, and your love was starting all over again, only even stronger than the last time... Well, okay, well, why "love" at once, he thought yearningly. Let's say “a feeling of deep sympathy”. Or “a desire”.  
Gwen paused, spreading her bare hands, white and delicate pink at the elbows, propping the door with her palms folded behind her back. A friendly but slightly frightened smile trembled on her lips. As if she were afraid that he might say something. Well. Though he used to make a fool of himself in her presence, his brain was not completely dead.  
Standing at attention in front of her, Nik nodded curtly.  
“Hello,” she said. Her lips were covered in a matte lipstick, scarlet like blood, and her hair looked like Marilyn Monroe's. What's more, the dress she wore was something like that. A delightful dress, in blue and white, with a halter that was tied around her neck. A deep neckline, two triangles of fabric over her small breasts. The voluminous skirt reached to her knees. She wasn't wearing stockings and her feet had gold heeled sandals, all consisting of straps and ties.  
She was so... dressy and clean and pink and creamy and delicate and neat that she seemed to have the wrong door. She was going to some retro movie audition or a 50s-inspired fashion photo shoot and instead ended up at a strip club.  
Gwen's eyes were, as always, thickly painted. They watched Nik with intense, anxious attention. She craned her neck slightly, as if she was expecting a trick from him at any moment.  
“Hello,” he coughed awkwardly. “Gwendoline.”  
“It’s a pleasure to meet you again," she said, and it was obvious she wasn't fucking pleased at all.  
He grimaced:  
“Me too.”  
“May I offer an apology on behalf of the club?”  
With a shrug, he walked over to the window and stared out, wondering why (or for what) she was even saying all this, getting annoyed with her for it. And at himself for letting them (that unknown 'them') treat her like that.  
“I was told that time, at the cancellation, that you choose your own clients, Gwendoline.”  
She was silent. He finished softly:  
“Well, like... it was explained to me, it's the way you do things. After all, you're free people, all that stuff. So, I don't see what that has to do with "on behalf of the club".  
Well, fine. Feel like a grumpy old prick just four minutes into the meeting, thought Nik helplessly. Great. Moving on. Let's do something else just as disgustingly toxic and stupidly cruel.  
He glanced back and saw that she was standing just as still, studying him with her darkened eyes, as harmless and innocent as a baby fawn's. He felt ashamed and disgusted, he wanted to go over and kiss those pale cheeks and the trembling corners of her lips...  
“I'm sorry. Of course, just some... misunderstanding. A mistake. It's nothing. It's all right, Gwendoline, really.”  
She smiled again, this time more bravely. There was a touch of relief in her now.  
“I didn't come here because... No. I didn't come so that... I didn't come here so that you could dance and sort of... compensate me for something. No. I really didn't. Just wanted to see you," he muttered.  
Gwen looked over his head, and then even higher.  
“And it's good to see you, Nik.”  
He realized she was scared again.  
“But I'll certainly be glad to see your wonderful art tonight!” he said loudly and clearly, raising both hands.  
Her face lit up and she nodded vigorously, either in gratitude or relief. She turned to the built-in panel and began to press buttons and he, back to the sofa, teased her a bit:  
“What about your cassettes? Retro party, all that stuff?”  
Gwen looked over her shoulder, frowning slightly:  
“That was for another dance.”  
“Оh.”  
“I hope you’ll enjoy it.”  
“I don't doubt I’ll enjoy,” he assured her.  
“Keep it,” she said, noticing he had started to pull his jacket off his shoulder,  
"Really?”  
“It's better like that.”  
“Well,” he joked, grinning widely. “You're right. I'm not the one who gets undressed here.”  
He thought she'd be tensed or even offended, but she just chuckled softly.  
“Relax,” she went back into her professionally trained litany. “All the cares and worries are out there. We're just relaxing and enjoying, ok? I'm going to be a little...”  
“Touchy.”  
“Exactly.”  
“I don't mind at all.”  
Gwen smirked again: Well, of course you don't mind. Her naughty smile was so sweet to his heart. If it weren't for the thought somewhere in the back of his mind that he was simply taking advantage of her, or, for fuck's sake, buying her, he might actually believe that Gwen was here only for him, that this all was about him.  
“It really is all about you,” she remarked as he studied her beautiful naked back, lightly sprinkled with dots of pale freckles. She had a gift for reading minds, maybe. But rather, she simply understood what was going on in the minds of her horny clients. “A question of perception, Nik.”  
The muscles on her back moved like ripples on milk or cream. He wanted to kiss her shoulder blades. Taste her. To smell her scent, her warmth, her movement, to touch it all, not just to watch. To feel the weight of her body on him, to put her on his lap, to lie beneath her, to let her restrain him, to wrap her strong, marble-white thighs around him... Of course, he thought bitterly, that was the point. For that, they said, no money was spared: for this illusion of intimacy, contact with an elusive and festive beauty. Unfading. Invincible.  
“That's a very pretty dress,” he remarked, trying not to be silent. Silence was a sign of surrender, and though he dreamed of surrendering to her, with all his secret passions and sins, from the tip of his tongue to the last vein, to the marrow, it seemed shameful to reveal the dream in any way.  
I'm not the one getting undressed here, he thought stubbornly, clinging to the thought as if it was some kind of salvation.  
But the problem was, there was nowhere to go from self-inflicted guilt: Gwen was exposing her luxurious body to him, while he was ready to bare his soul as well.  
The lights began to fade, and she was left in half-darkness: a luminous image, a shining dream. She took a step, turned away and, as it seemed to him, pressed her hands to her face. Light came from hidden panels on the walls and from the ceiling, bathing her in a pinkish soft cloud. Her skin seemed to glow, and that delightful dress, and her gold sandals, the dimples on the inside of her knees - everything was so harmonious and wonderful and... innocent. Gently innocent.  
He heard his own quiet sigh. The music played, it was a modern song of some sort, sung in a soft, lulling female voice. Gwen squatted down, pressing her fingers to her make-up mouth, then turned to face him and, hitting the beat, sank to her knees. Everything about her moved so flawlessly, smoothly, one movement flowing into another, and there she was, curving over, her beautiful legs flashed, one bent at the knee. Her skirt lifted for a moment, exposing the edge of the dark blue lace that framed her white thigh. She found herself on her knees again, hugging someone unseen in front of her, running her palm over her nonexistent face, then pressing her palm against her cheek. As it often was with her, she was completely lost in the dance. Maybe these movements of hers, complicated, sometimes more like some obscene acrobatics, had been learned and repeated a thousand times: but she always looked distant and dreamy. As if it meant something to her, he thought. She got up and walked over to him, leaning over, smiling a meek and sad smile.  
Her fingers slid over his hands that lay in his lap. She ran her fingers gently along his face, hardly touching it. Then she straightened and turned her back, swaying to the slow lulling music. Her palms slid along her own thighs, she spread her legs and began to lift the hem of her skirt.  
More than anything, he wished he could reach out - especially since everything was so close, right? And help her. The edge of her panties flashed and she let go of the heavy fabric, and everything was hidden from his eager, impatient eyes again.  
Laughing softly, he threw his head back and stared up at the ceiling. Gwen danced around the sofa and leaned over him. Her perfume was driving him crazy. Everything - was maddening. He'd had a hard-on since she'd been wriggling there, as the jocks would say - in the parterre. There was little he could do about it. Did he have to?  
She rested her head quietly on his shoulder, her golden curls scattered across the dark fabric. Her hands were outstretched, touching his arms, and suddenly for a moment she intertwined her fingers with his own. That unsophisticated, but friggin' elaborate, gesture made him feel like he was being electrocuted.  
“Don't go,” he pleaded in a voice husky with excitement. “Please. Don't leave...”  
“Shh,” her voice close to his face, at the very heart of his desire. “I'm here. I'm not leaving. I'm with you, I’m here with you. Nik. You have such beautiful eyes.”  
He looked up at her, helplessly, almost desperately.  
“Beautiful. Ocean eyes.”  
Bitch, he thought in that seductive and affectionate touch, completely losing himself. What a bitch you are. The fact that she was repeating the words of the song could mean exactly this - every one of those touches and every one of her words had been practiced on dozens of men before him.  
Her lips moved a guilt-ridden smile, as if she were saying: so what? After all, for these ten minutes, I'm here, with you.  
Only with you.  
She stroked his shoulders, his arms, his chest. Imperceptibly, as always, she kissed his temple. She ran the back of her narrow palm along his face.  
As she moved to continue the dance in front of the seated client, he ran his palms across his face, as if trying to regain her touch, to somehow take it for himself. Gwen must have noticed it. He heard her soft, low chuckle.  
Turning towards him, facing him, yes so close that the warmth of her large body and the smell of freesias and green apples almost gave him a premature ejaculation, she swayed her hips mercilessly. She ran her hands over her breasts, hidden beneath the triangles of tissue. Tilting her head, her mouth slightly open, she slid her long fingers under the edge of the neckline. He watched her fingers move, caressing the nipple. Then Gwen shook her head, pulled the zip hidden in the waistband seam, put her hands behind her neck, and the bodice of her dress, already held open, fell apart, revealing lace triangles - instead of the white and blue fabric. She unbuttoned something else there, he wasn't particularly sure what, and the dress slid to her knees, revealing all of her. The fabric lay in heavy folds over his knee, Gwen, smiling with just her eyes, pushed the dress to the floor.  
It made him want to bend over and pick it up, press it to his face, to himself, inhale her scent, think of nothing else. That music had a peculiar effect, soothing and wrenching at the same time, as if someone was wrenching at the exposed soul with their indefatigable, caressing, cruel fingers.  
Someone. He knew very well, saw exactly who it was. She lifted her arms, shaking her curls, swaying over him - a lace jumpsuit that echoed the neckline on her dress, also tied around her neck with a thin ribbon. Beneath the dark blue patterns, he could see her cherry-pink nipples, the skin on her belly was exposed almost to her pubes, presenting a delightful contrast, pearls and sapphires, ink and paper - something that always complemented and shaded each other.  
Gwen knelt on the sofa, moving her hips an inch above his fly, his poor, thirsty, damned cock, which, oblivious to all decency, was bursting free from beneath the expensive Italian gabardine. He didn't give a damn about what was allowed here, what wasn't.  
Suddenly she gently took his hand and lifted it, putting her palm on it and pressed it to her chest. He instantly squeezed, some kind of fucking grasping reflex that came from the jungle, where our ancestors mated, not particularly burdened by reflection and drama. He squeezed with a pleasure that sent an extra pulse through his groin - and somehow freed his confused mind. Under his palm it was soft and gentle and delicate, so tender and... That tiny tit might have driven him mad if everything else before had not already put him into a state of pre-conscious ecstasy. Her nipple was already erect, tearing from its lacy hard captivity. So sharp and hard. Her hand rested on top of his, not squeezing, but not letting go either.  
He lifted his other hand; she caught it and pressed it to her tit as well. Her eyes rolled back slightly in pleasure, her mouth opened, the tip of her tongue running across her lipstick-red lips. He remembered, absently, but with a kind of increasing fondness, that her upper lip was decorated - disfigured - no, nevertheless decorated - with a soft, barely noticeable scar. Gwen, meanwhile, arched toward him, thrusting her breasts into his palms. Then she tilted her head back and began arching her back. Soon she was slipping out from under his touch.  
The tips of her curls touched the carpet. Her hips still straddled his. She rubbed her lace-covered pubis against him. He imagined he could feel her wetness there, between his legs. Her sweet, honeyed, candy-like nectar.  
Gwen straightened abruptly, her face rosy, her eyes shining - those were real ocean eyes, he thought blankly, fascinated. She wrapped her arms around his face and touched her lips to his forehead. She rolled over and began to sway gently, shamelessly pressing her vagina into his erection.  
Then, arching her back - he watched mesmerised as the muscles danced and the hard, heavy cord of her spine whitened under her skin - she pulled the hair away from his neck, touched the ties. He saw that she had pulled the lace from her chest. The jumpsuit split in two, the panties covering her heavy buttocks and the - now abandoned - bustier bodice.  
When Gwen stood up and turned around, finally, the top of that lingerie pornography flew into his face. He didn't even have time to catch it. She stood with her arm curled at the elbow pressed to her chest, hiding herself in false chastity and smirking with her brightly painted mouth.  
Nik finally fumbled for the lace, a weightless cloud rolling down to his knee. He grasped it, imagining God knows what, like grabbing her hair in his fist. Not listening to the voice of reason, he pressed her bustier against his face, then lowered it to his fly, unzipping it with his other hand.  
Gwen watched this, swaying to the melancholy music and bowing her head slightly. She didn't say anything, didn't object, but she didn't grin encouragingly either, like, go ahead, of course...  
And only when he pressed the piece of lace to his cock, she lower her hand, showing him her tits: and immediately, without taking her eyes off the movements of his hand, began to fondle herself. Her right hand left the flushed nipple alone and slid down, down, down, she slipped her hand into her panties.  
A sad and desperate thought flashed through his mind: What if he was allowed to touch THERE too, she would put her warm fingers over his clumsy hand, guide his hand to herself, oh, how wonderful that would be... Gwen, rocking on her heels, stepped back a few steps, dropped to her knees and arched out, crawled to him on all fours. Her breasts swayed slightly; a strand fell over her face. And immediately she crawled backwards, with smooth and beautiful movements, wiggling her ass. His hand moved up and down, no longer even a thought of covering himself in any way. She didn't stop, which meant she didn't mind. No, she didn't at all. With a quick glimpse glancing at his onanism session, she got to her knees and pulled her panties down. Rolling over onto her back, she lifted her crossed, perfectly straight legs, slipping her panties down to her ankles. She bent her legs, pulling the lace off easily. He made some kind of shocked sound, strange even to his own ears.  
Gwen rose to her feet and again, smiling viciously and gratuitously, threw her underwear at him, and her panties fell to his chest. She bent over, arching her back, spreading her knees wide, and he stared, stared, stared. If he could fuck a woman with his gaze, that was what would happen.  
It did not last, he thought afterwards, more than ten seconds. But then there was no countdown in his mind, but a happy feeling, delight and tenderness for her, for this amazing bloom that had opened up here - for him - just as she had promised.  
The music cut short at this point. And the lights went out. He heard his startled shriek and her quiet sighs, footsteps. He could also hear the wet sounds that continued to emanate from his hand and from the fly where he was fumbling with the lace wrapped palm. The light gradually began to come on again, very soft, more like a kind of half-darkness. The music played, but also softly and quietly, like an elevator soundtrack. Gwen stood at the door, wrapped in a huge black kimono embroidered with thin white flowers. She held up her hand, he could see her bare skin flicker in the wide sleeve, her armpit as smooth as a porcelain cup. She tucked her hair away from under the collar.  
“It was,” he began. “Wonderful. Very...”  
“It's all right," she interrupted, in a completely nonchalant tone. “Take your time. It's okay, Nik. I'm glad you enjoyed it. It was a pleasure working for you.”  
He was stunned into silence, finally covering himself with his other hand, but not sure why he should do that at all, considering that everything had already happened, and his shame (or triumph, depending on how you look at it) was quite obvious to her.  
“Fix up your clothes on your way out,” she asked softly. “Nik.”  
And, sliding out the door, she shut it behind her.  
He looked down at himself slowly, her panties lying on his thigh. He grabbed them and pressed them to his face. He even, losing all shame and notions of decency, stuck his tongue out and licked them. They smelled of her perfume and of Gwen - gently and delightfully - which, of course, sent him to the edge of orgasm. And a second or two later, over the edge of one.  
Then he had to clean himself up. He remembered how he had scoffed at those tissues, hygiene, the dubious delights of some anonymous onanists, and all the rest. But now it all came in handy. Now he himself had joined the club of self-satisfaction in the midst...  
Then Nik remembered that here, hidden by panels on the wall, was also a private toilet room, even with a walk-in shower, and he had to go there too. He went out at last, adjusting his clothes and tugging at the sleeves of his jacket. Making himself look decent, just like Gwen had told him to. Ah, Gwen. Well, not the first time she'd seen it all, but the hundredth time. So?  
She didn't flinch, didn't give him the slightest sign that she was disgusted or perplexed or anything. Her kindness was too much, though, as was everything about her - well, just... too much. Too much for my heart, he thought, pouring himself a brandy.  
Her underwear, now vandalized, crumpled, stained with his seed, lay on the floor, next to the sofa. Those poor abused panties, the bra stained with smears of precum and semen, seemed to him at once pathetic, naughty, strangely beautiful - and arousing.  
What was wrong with him? What is this, the second act? Is he really about to get a hard-on again?!  
While he was bombarding himself with mocking questions, he actually got a hard-on again. He had to pour another drink and think of something really disgusting. He stuck his hand for the phone in his inner jacket pocket, but the phone wasn't there.  
The phone was found in a side pocket, but that wasn't the point: it was the fact that in the inner pocket his fingers had caught and pulled a folded quadruple piece of paper. Nik unfolded it with a pounding heart. The handwriting was scrawled out. Date, time, address and place name, probably some cafe or pub, he didn't know. He went online and found the address, it was a coffee shop not far from where Gwen had dropped her sizeable ass off, where the hot dogs were sold, where Nik and Gwen had the world's most awkward small talk.  
He reread it again and again. And again. And again.  
When Nik arrived at this coffee shop, people were still running through the streets, caught up in the hustle and bustle of the big city. It was evening, but not late enough for London. The coffee shop was packed, almost all the tables were occupied. Just when he'd thought he was wasting his time, he noticed her fair-haired head towering over the far table. He walked over and sat down, pushing his chair back noisily. He took the menu and began to study it with the keenest interest.  
For a few minutes she, clearly stunned, was silent. Then she said:  
“What, really...?”  
Nik looked up, but didn't raise his head.  
She was wearing a thin, flesh-coloured knitted dress, with a high collar, but - all kind of fishnet, such that if he had looked closely he would have seen her nipples. Probably. Her hair was loose on her shoulders. She was wearing bright makeup, and most likely post-work. He only hoped that an hour or two ago she wasn't rubbing her adorable buns or her delicate pie against another man's trouser leg.  
“How did you manage to slip that note to me?”  
She smiled, wrinkling her nose slyly and guiltily.  
“And why?” he inquired, putting down the menu sheet. “Gwendoline, did that have any meaning? Because I don't quite understand.”  
Her face grew unhappy and lost, like that of a child who has been shouted at for nothing.  
“But you are here,” she said softly.  
“Only to ask you this.”  
“Is that all?”  
“I guess.” - He grimaced.  
“That's all you wanted to ask me?” she said, lowering her lashes. He noticed that there was a huge cup of coffee in front of her, some kind of cappuccino, latte, whatever. There was even some sort of pattern drawn on the coffee foam. Some kind of flower that looked like a vagina. Jesus, Nik, he thought. Will everything remind you of a woman's genitals now?  
Gwen sighed brokenly, then picked up a sugar sachet and started dusting it into the damn coffee vagina. She looked and acted like a girl, but not a sweet, adorable girl, but a badass from a teen show.  
Then, on a moment's thought, Gwen slipped her hand into the pocket of her unbuttoned coat and placed some sort of white square in front of him.  
“Here. I return it. Washed and ironed.”  
“You didn't have to do that.”  
“Well, I already figured I didn't have to.”  
Her passive aggression was kind of cute. And very defenseless, if you think about it. He took the handkerchief and put it in his pocket.  
“Any advice on what to order here?”  
“Nothing at all,” she said with a mirthless smile. “The coffee is good, though.”  
He nodded, as if he was really going to start sampling coffee in this shithole of a neighbourhood.  
“You behaved with a lot of dignity, Nik," she said suddenly. “That time. You... helped me. And you were there for me.”  
“And then, of course, you felt it was your duty to strip naked in front of me and let me jack off into your lacy panties.”  
She was shocked into silence. He looked at her, finally getting a good look - and saw that her face was pale, only bright patches of humiliated blush flashed across her cheeks.  
“Okay,” he muttered. “You're right. If I hadn't wanted to, I wouldn't have jerked off. But then... we both made this... this mistake.”  
“You think my job is a mistake,” she said without a questioning tone.  
“No, and I'm not a prude.”  
“But then what...”  
“Because I am the mistake factor in all of this," he raised his voice, and when he saw that she was looking around the hall with those eyes-oceans filled with fright, he lowered his voice. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It's just me.”  
“I just... I wanted to thank you,” she said, her voice trembling with frustration. “Nik. I really wanted to...”  
“You did a great job of thanking me.”  
“Do you consider it some kind of indignity for yourself? Talking, on an equal level, to some cheap stripper?”  
You're not that cheap, his wife's voice said in his head. The tip he left for her was as blatantly high and altogether obscene the way his cum was on her underwear.  
“It's all wrong, Gwendoline. You left a note, not... not even a phone number, it's all so...”  
“I can't give you my number.”  
“But you showed up on your own.”  
“Yeah, because it was my choice.”  
“You're so fucking weird," he blurted out, and Gwen's face looked like he'd slapped her in the face. As if he were an asshole like Kevin.  
She was silent again, pushing her chin out angrily, biting her lip. Then she looked at the coffee in confusion and, as if waking up, began to sip it.  
I wonder if you've ever given any other clients coordinates to drop by like that, he thought in a spiteful and angry longing. Coming on a date in that translucent fucking dress, eh? You' fucking exhibitionist. Holy shit.  
“No,” she said, reading his mind for the umpteenth time, “just wanted to meet you. People at the club... they... you don't want to see them a second time, or at least see them outside the club. But it's somehow very different with you.”  
A heavy sigh.  
“Do you realize that I masturbated with your underwear and that I managed to get an erection every, EVERY time you were around?” Nik asked cautiously. ”I don't know, maybe in your profession you somehow stop realizing that, no?”  
“No,” she repeated obediently. “You don't stop realizing. I've seen it. I understand that. Thank you for coming anyway. I'm sorry if it made you feel... uncomfortable.”  
“I'm the fucking king of discomfort, Gwen," he laughed. “It doesn't matter, though. I guess it doesn't. And I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. All that stuff I said was probably out of... hopelessness. Don't blame yourself. Please don't. And thank you for letting me meet you. Just like that. Without the club.”  
“We're not allowed to meet clients,” she said quietly.  
“I know.”  
“Seeing each other, giving our phone number...”  
“I know,” he repeated softly. “Gwen. I understand everything.”  
She sipped her coffee, wrinkled her nose like she was about to cry. Then she got up, picked up her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and headed for the door.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music:  
> Laura Branigan - Self Control  
> ABBA - Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)  
> Sam Brown - Stop  
> Ace of Base - Living in Danger

As usual, he paced beside her, occasionally turning to check that she wasn't going to run away or punch him in the jaw with her elbow. No, she wasn't going to. But Gwen's face was sad, somehow contorted.   
“Where are you going?”  
“Not to my place.”  
“Of course not.”  
She only wrinkled her nose in response. She wore translucent boots with silver laces and pointy nine-inch heels. She slammed those thin heels into the pavement with the determination of a soldier in a final attack.  
“How's your boyfriend doing?” after a hundred paces and one traffic light.   
No, there was definitely some unrighteous energy raging through him today, a mixture of jealousy, anger, joy. Why did he even let his mouth say any of this? For he had been so happy, so grateful that she was walking down the street next to him at all.  
“He's not my... Not my boyfriend... Not in that way," Gwen threw a strand of hair from her face. “Oh god. Why am I even telling you these things?”  
“You must wish you hadn't invited me to the coffee shop, huh?” He smirked. “It's not easy to be around me.”  
“I have noticed that.”  
“But it's funny.”  
“And that I hadn't noticed yet,” she said, and then she grinned and put her hand to her mouth and started laughing. He laughed, too.   
“No, really? What do you mean? Your boyfriend, who's not a boyfriend at all...” He didn't let it up when the laughter began to subside.  
She spoke very softly and calmly:  
“Patrick... He's not a... a lady’s guy, so to speak.”  
“Uh-huh.”  
He furrowed his brow, trying to imagine this strange alliance.  
“But he's my best friend. Anyway. Always standing up for me. Like a brother. Or more.”  
Nik nodded, though there were dozens of questions on his tongue. Still, he decided she' d had enough of his toxic attacks for one day. They walked a few blocks, past some fenced-off construction area, and finally ended up in a little neighborhood filled with spice and clothing shops. There were some hippie shops, even a specialty shop for Tarot card readers. He cocked his head, occasionally perusing the signs and advertisements in bewilderment.   
“You want a fortune reading or what? Need a horoscope?”  
She looked down, her smile growing wider. He liked that, after all, she was smiling at his jokes - and walking beside him so independently, proudly - and yet obediently, as if they were... a real couple. The thought warmed his heart. He imagined them becoming a couple. He imagined the jealous glances of the men, and it made him feel nasty and good in advance. This woman was one in a million. He wasn't about to give up his joyful anticipation, even when she said venomously:  
“Scorpios don't believe in horoscopes.”  
The joke, though old, had always struck him as funny. Nik chuckled eagerly. Not to lose face, he retorted:  
“Lions, too.”  
She, smirking indefinitely, trying not to look at him, moved her shoulders under her oversized beige coat:  
“They say Lions are very selfish.”  
“That's what resentful exes say.”  
“Do you have many of those?”  
“Hey. Have you forgot? I'm divorced.”  
“At least one, then.”  
“Yeah, probably better not to call her as a witness for me if I get caught.”  
“On what?” she raised an eyebrow.  
“There's a blood trail following me,” he said seriously.   
Gwen stopped, turned abruptly toward him, and shook her head, rolling her eyes like a teacher scolding her dumbest student:  
“Nik. You realize you've already ruined the date; you've said so many stupid things... And now you're carrying on. Any other girl would have run away. Do you understand that?”  
Flattered and insulted at the same time, Nik pouted:  
“You're not just any girl. You have a sense of humour.”  
She mumbled something to herself; he could hear "not so much with you.” He smiled affectionately, spreading his arms in a conciliatory manner:  
“Do you want me to say something sweet? Something extremely nice?”  
Gwen squinted as if to say - well, try it. You'll probably screw it up.  
“Be so kind.”  
“Objective reasoning. Here's what I found out the other day. I did some serious scientific research. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met.”  
She pursed her lips and lowered her eyes. Her eyelashes fluttered, the dimples on her cheeks coming and going.   
“Is this one of your high school pick-up lines?” she spoke at last, but she looked up at him and he could see that those lovely blue eyes were sparkling with liquid laughter.  
“It's impromptu.”  
“You're not capable of impromptu.”  
“Yes, I am, Gwendoline. I am an actor, after all. Get to know me better and you'll see. I won't let you get bored.”  
She shrugged her shoulders again. His phone rang, and he had to take it, he gestured for her to wait, but when he turned around, answering some silly question from his assistant (some stupid interview where he would have to justify himself again about the unacceptability of incest in "normal life" - that is, in life without dragons and knights), she had already gone a dozen steps away. He had to catch up with her.   
“Where are we going, anyway?” He asked in his most socially appropriate tone.  
“We.”  
“Well, I'm around you, aren't I?”  
She exhaled noisily, shook her golden curls:  
“Near here. I need to get some... costume details.”  
Gwen finally stopped in front of a dusty and motley shop window. He saw the neon sign above the place. It was a sex shop, aka, as reported below, under the silhouette of a naked girl with bunny ears on her head - a costume shop for role-playing, belly dance, exotic dance and other interesting things.  
“I could come in with you,” he informed her as if nothing had happened.   
She looked at him with mild concern.  
“I've been to such places,” he assured her.   
“I'm sure you have,” she commented dryly, and then she pushed the door open, the bell jingling. 

It was stuffy inside, the rows of obscene objects and magazines flooded with pinkish light.  
“Gwen! Bunny!” a cheerful boom came from behind the counter. Nik saw a young man, very tall and oddly dressed, with a mop of blond hair and a soft, gentle face. “I was about to call you. Where are you...”  
A restless glance at Nik.  
“Mister,” the man began, squinting warily at the window display and at Gwen. “We're having a private fitting here, so now, technically, we're... we're closing.”  
“He is with me,” she gestured, making a grimace. “It's a... friend.”  
“A friend?” the clerk gave Nik a distrustful look. ”Like, your friend, Gwendoline?”  
“Nik, I'd like you to meet Patrick. This is Patrick. My... boyfriend.”  
He grinned. And had to shake the outstretched hand.   
“Nik is the man who took care of Kevin. Remember? I’ve told you. That's the one, who helped me. And Patrick...”  
Gwen stopped talking and then spoke again.  
“He's a musician. An independent musician. Here it’s… It's a part-time job,” she said, making excuses for God knows why.  
Patrick, however, remained polite and courteous:  
“I think it's silly to have prejudices nowadays," he informed them, and only at that moment Nik realized that he was being looked at from head to toe. “Is that right?”  
“Yeah, I agree.”  
“And I appreciate you standing up for Gwen. She looks like a white tiger, but she's such a delicate flower at heart.”  
“Oh, please. Anyone would have do that...”   
“No, not anyone would. You and I both know that. She… will, maybe she doesn't.”  
Nik clenched his fists, slipping his hands into the pockets. This Patrick may have looked like a drag queen party star, but he certainly wasn't a fool.  
“What is the accent?”  
“Danish,” Gwen hastily blurted out. “I told you so, by the way! Listen. Did you put things on hold to be fitted?”  
“Yeah, and...”  
“Then could you...”  
Patrick's eyebrows furrowed, but under his girlfriend's stern gaze, he shrank back.   
“Of course. I always do that. Disappearing into the shadows. What are we having for dinner?”  
“Something healthy.”  
“Quinoa salad?”  
She turned helplessly to Nik, as if looking for an escape from either salads or quinoa.  
“I'm a vegan,” Patrick told him confidentially. “For an ethical treatment of nature.”  
“I totally support that,” Nik muttered in confusion.   
“Man is not the king of nature, but only a child of it, right?”  
“Is this a Greta Thunberg lecture?” he asked, and, catching the way the corners of Gwen's lips twitched, he forced an apologetic smile from himself. “Sorry. Of course I support eco-activism.”  
“There's a problem in today's society,” Patrick said, leaning under the counter and pulling out some rustling packages. “We spend too much and take too much away without giving anything back. But all the answers are on the surface, available to any earthling. Take, for example, the left-radical ideas...”  
And he rattled and rattled in his pleasant, affectionate baritone, taking out and laying out in front of Gwen samples of rhinestone embroidered bustiers and chain-linked shorts. He calmed down at last and, with a glance of alarm and adoration at Gwen, put on some soft music.  
“This is my new selection. The true spirit of the carnivorous and thundering eighties.”  
Gwen waved gratefully as Patrick finally moved towards the door. Nik was distracted by a shelf of rubber pricks and silicone vagina samples, so he didn't immediately realize that some awkward silence had hung, with only the bass guitars strumming.   
He turned around and saw Patrick gesturing towards his ear with an invisible phone. Gwen nodded irritably.   
“If anything, you can call the police,” Nik said. “Gwen is worth the trouble of being locked up for.”  
Patrick's mouth went into an “O”. Then he squirmed in the doorway in embarrassment - and was gone. Gwen walked over to the counter, grabbed a bunch of keys from it, and locked the door behind him. She turned to Nik.  
“I’m sorry. Actually not. You were the one who wanted to come in.”  
“Everything is okay. If you won't rape my ass with that giant cock, I'm ready for anything,” he assured her.  
“With which?”  
He showed her. She giggled. Shaking her head, she walked over to the counter and started going through the samples.   
“Secret dreams, Nik? Give me a quarter of an hour," she said, still chuckling. “And then I have to go home. Really. Patrick is going to worry.”  
“Okay. You know, I've never had a sex shop date before.”  
“Well, it is probably your time to start.”  
“Will you try this on?” He pulled a lace set off the rack - a black bra, weightless panties made from literally three strips of fabric, and a stocking belt. He even put it against himself, again eliciting a fit of wild amusement from Gwen.  
“It suits you,” she declared defiantly.  
“Hey. Easy now, my English rose.”   
“A rose with thorns,” she said, taking off her coat.  
He stared admiringly at her dress, which revealed her back in a round cut. The dress was indeed quite in keeping with this fitting of hers.   
“I like your thorns.”   
They're harmless, he thought fondly. They... don't even hurt.  
“Oh, yeah? And. What's the flaws of the Danish guys?”  
“Basically, we're extremely depressed. And we drink.”  
“Ah, well, that. A common one.”  
“My wife also used to say that I'm dull.”  
“Was she bored with you?” Gwen turned to him. Her gaze looked as dark and deep as the sea in that pinkish light. “Why?”  
“Er, you know… Very superficial. Corny. Self-centered. Phony. Obsessed with my Ego and personal success.”  
“Is that what you were?”  
“Probably, yes,” he said without smiling. “Isn't that what you think of me?”  
She looked at him carefully.  
“No.”   
“That,” he turned away to hide the sudden awkwardness. His gaze bumped into the "anal lube" section, which certainly didn't add to the ease and propriety of the situation. “That is very nice of you. It really is. It actually is. Gwen. Hey, why would they make salted caramel-flavoured anal lube?! Like… Seriously?”  
Gwen shook her head perplexedly. He could see she wasn't angry at all. She didn't have a real angry gland in her bodily system, he'd figured that out by now. Everything in her mouth became soft and gentle, all the bad things seemed to disappear and melt away, as if such a huge woman had no need for poison or rage. Like elephants or giraffes did not need poisonous fangs. He remembered reading somewhere, or hearing in some wildlife documentary, that the largest animals were the gentlest and most trusting. Elephants, or whales, for that matter... He wouldn't say that out loud, of course: for a start, it wasn't as if she herself was that happy about her size.   
At the thought of size, he turned again to the racks of indecent lingerie. Gwen, remaining in her dress and her booties, scooped the items off the counter and went to the fitting booths. She drew the curtains. The dark red velvet swayed. He heard her in a quiet, laughing voice sing along: "You take my self, you take my self-control”.  
And then he was alone with the titty girls on the covers of porn magazines.  
A familiar tune played, and he walked over to the stall, pulling off his jacket. He stood leaning with his back against the wall opposite.  
“Hey. You know, I had a crush on the blonde from Abba when I was a kid. You could say it was my first love.”  
Gwen was rustling with something behind the curtain, then he heard the clicking of her heels and a quiet laugh.   
“It's bloody lovely,” she said at last. “I need to get my fringes trimmed and... try to do an eighties-inspired show.”  
“You'd look amazing.”  
“Yeah, and I'll take a couple of your consultations to get me in the spirit of the era.”  
“Sure thing.”  
They fell silent. The song ended and he thought, "a man after midnight".   
Yeah.  
He wouldn't mind at all seeing her with fringes, in a leotard revealing white strips of skin on her delightful pubes and in tight stockings covering her knees. And he would probably get such a hard-on then that his brain circulation would come to a complete halt. He'll be glad of that, though. Gwen was so bloody worth it.  
“Gwen? What are you up to?”  
She didn't say anything. Another old song came on, a slow and languid one that he, like every one of his generation, knew and remembered. The singer's voice was beautiful, husky and piercing.  
“May I have a look?”  
Silence. He was ready to everything now, like, let's say, to see her storming out of the dressing-room, finally giving vent to her emotions and beating him senseless with something, for instance, a rubber cock, up his smug face. But not to this lost silence.   
Anything could have happened in that silence - and anything could have ended.   
Not with a bang, but with a whimper.  
He turned away, wandering his gaze across the cheaply paneled ceiling. It would probably be easier to walk away than to explain to her how much he was attracted to her. And how he'd made mistakes along the way, how saddened he'd been by his own failings.  
A steady tinkling sound came from the metal rings on the metal bracket. The red velvet moved aside, and Nik remained frozen in place, gazing at her. Gwen immediately turned away, stood with her back to him, leaning slightly forward and placing one long arm on the bar attached to the mirror. Her other hand put a tube of scarlet lipstick to her mouth. She looked at him intently in the mirror, as if to say: well? Is this what you wanted? Did you really desire it?  
She wasn't wearing panties, just a garter belt. The bra was a few silk black ribbons, they encircled her breasts in triangles around them, and only to indicate their presence. So, strictly speaking, there was no bra either, just its ethereal idea.  
Still on her heels, and with that red lipstick touching her plump pretty lips, she looked like a huge and adorable doll, some terribly expensive and exquisite toy.   
And at the same time she was alive, painfully alive and strangely defenseless, despite the bravado that came through in her strained smirk. She swiped her lipstick again and again, turning the hand from side to side in quick, habitual strokes, then pressed her lips together and parted a few times.   
Her eyelashes lowered. Glancing out from under them like a she-cat, Gwen wiggled her gorgeous bum slightly. She crossed her legs, arched her back.  
“Well,” she asked innocently and quietly. “How does it look?”  
Nik took a step, a second, and then just dropped to his knees, pressed his face to her thigh and left a kiss on it, a bite. And let go when she cried out softly and shifted from foot to foot. He began kissing again, more and more, reached the pit behind her perfect knee, began to lick the scent off her skin, the exciting, enchanting scent and taste of Gwen that made his mind go completely blank. His lips slid lower until he found himself kissing her fine long ankle, he was shivering, and absolutely crushed - and absolutely drunk.   
She spread her legs slightly, still not saying a word. It was already perfectly clear, her invitation, her silent command - or plea. Nik repeated his path of kisses - for another impossibly long leg, wincing with pleasure and wondering if he was dreaming it all, all that there were no words for in human language.   
He reached her ass, pressed his face into the luxuriously heavy buttock and froze for a few seconds with his heart pounding. Could a man, a perfectly healthy, athletic-looking man, die right now, from the excess of sensation and the frightening thrill of it all?  
But he did not die, rather he fell into a kind of happy trance. He kissed and nibbled, and left the marks of his teeth on her snow-white skin, and immediately licked them until he dived even lower, and pressed his lips to her delicate, dark pink clad flower. It was already wet between her legs, which pleased him terribly, turned him on additionally. It was the best drug in the world - and the only one for him - this taste of purity and flesh, celestially tender and viciously sweet. He kissed her literally with a hickey and heard her soft moans. They grew louder and louder, and finally she exhaled and cried out. Standing, shifting the weight of her body on that bar on the mirror, exposing her lovely ass, shamelessly, beautifully, so delightful. He slid his hands around her waist, pulling so that Gwen, swaying, literally pushed herself onto his tongue.   
Slipping his finger a little further, he found her clit and circled it, fucking her with his mouth, interrupting only to catch some air. She was just screaming now, and it was pouring out of her so that his mouth was filled with that wonderful juice, but he wanted more and more, couldn't stop in that desire. He felt her hips tense, her muscles contracting, twitching, she began to wiggle her ass like a heating animal. Leaning forward, she exposed her whole self, set it up for him - look, caress, kiss and swallow, take it for yourself if you could. And he wanted, oh, how he wanted her to feel his skill.   
But the usual desire to show off, to appear to be a good lover, had somehow faded and receded to other feelings - to his enormous gratitude, admiration and fondness for her. She was a god in that moment, an incomprehensible one to whom he wanted to give his heart, not just the touch of his fingers or the flick of his tongue. He wanted to penetrate her core, but he also wanted to kneel before her in awe-inspiring adoration.   
He pressed the most vicious of French kisses into her lower lips again, feeling them open towards him, parting, letting his tongue into the warm and velvety tightness. Gwen arched even lower and his mouth covered her hot clit, he pressed against it, against the throbbing little point on top of her pleasure - and she twitched, covering his chin and the short stubble on it with handfuls of wetness.   
He continued. It was as if he could hear those moans from afar, hoarse and short, animal, confused, wet. She clamped a hand over her mouth, he could tell by the way her cries subsided but didn't stop, as if they had become sheltered by something. Her abdomen contracted in orgasm, she shuddered and whimpered. He let go and pulled away, the black ribbon from her stocking belt sliding down her buttock. He stroked the smooth skin, admiring his bite marks and vaguely aware that she would become angry, probably even denounce him as possessive and a rough lover. That it would be a hindrance to her job, there was no doubt about that. The thought, clouded by his desire, and everything that had happened, was disgustingly pleasing to him.  
He pushed her, forcing her to lean even lower, so that her head was now lower than her ass. He saw that she, in some desperate gesture, had grasped the bar with both hands. A sheer drop of sweat slid down her back, down the deep notch at the very bottom of her spine. Her hair swayed in the half-light like the petals of a white flower. Her mouth, flickering as she shook her head up and down, was covered in smeared scarlet lipstick.   
And then, rubbing his face into her innermost, he let her cum. He parted her labia with his fingers and pushed his tongue so deep that she arched up, nearly knocking him over. She caught his thigh with a sharp heel, wriggled out and howled.  
His mouth filled with her pleasure moisture. He let go of her, trembling, pressed his cheek against her buttock. Gwen was breathing intermittently and loudly, sobbing, her legs shaking.  
Nik straightened, staggering from the fact that all the blood in him seemed to have drained and remained in a single organ. He stood to his full height, clutching at the stall wall with his wet fingers.   
Forced Gwen to turn around. And immediately embraced her, pressing his lips to her hot, wet cheek. And kissed her scarlet mouth, enjoying every second of this beautiful catastrophe. Everything was ruined, including the image of a gentleman and a knight in shining, which he, maybe without fully realising it, had tried so hard to build up around her. But she was somehow bigger, bigger than everything in the world, bigger than these games, bigger than this exhausted politeness, bigger than Nik himself, and even bigger than her tender, innocent soul.   
He could feel her tits pressed against his thin jumper, and he regretted that he hadn't even undressed when he'd thrown himself on to her. So longed for that moment - true intimacy, the merging of bodies. But there was still more to come, he thought, hugging her tighter, kissing her brow, and the scar above her lip, and the tip of her nose, and her pretty ear, and the soft strands on her temple.   
Gwen, to his great joy, hugged him back, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, she clung to him in that confused, soft post-orgasm gratitude of hers.  
“Shh,” he murmured, running his fingers over her shuddering shoulder blades. “I'm right here with you. I'm here for you, Gwen. I'm with you. I won't let you down. Hey… Here we go.”   
Kissing her again, tasting her lipstick and her orgasm on his tongue, he exhaled hastily and pressed his forehead against her low tilted forehead.  
“Is everything all right?”  
She mumbled something, sobbing.  
“Is that okay, Gwen?”  
“I guess...”  
“Good. Should I stay?”  
She pulled back and circled his face with a defenseless, myopic look. Her pupils had become so huge that her eyes seemed almost black.  
“You wear glasses,” he said suddenly.  
“What?!”  
“I know the look”, he chuckled awkwardly.   
“The contact lens.”  
“Oh, yes.”  
“I took them off today.”  
“That's dangerous. What if it hadn't been me?”  
“Who would it have been then?”  
He shrugged. He was just trying to cheer her up with all that nonsense. But when he saw that she had fallen into a kind of prostration, he already regretted his attempts.   
“I would have recognized you anyway. You smell like Nik.”  
He held up his hand and poked his nose into his sleeve with repentant suspicion.  
“It's a pleasant smell," she said with a low, sad chuckle. She rubbed her cheek against his sleeve and then, abruptly, kissed his wrist, the skin that was exposed above his expensive watch. Immediately she blushed, turned away, lifted her hands and began to smooth her hair.  
He stared into the mirror over her shoulder. She suddenly looked down at his fly. He caught her gaze and raised his eyebrows: sorry, but can't help it.  
“What are you going to do?”  
“I'll wait. I'll be all right.”  
“Oh, will you?”  
“As a last resort, I'll use the porn booth. I don't think that's the new thing around here.”  
“Do you always masturbate outside your home?”  
“What's the big deal? And are we not in public, aren’t we?” he gave a short laugh. “But... Well, no. I jerk off at home too.”  
Gwen, wiping her face with a wet tissue she'd pulled from her purse, chuckled softly:  
“What a proud way to claim it.”  
He grinned broadly: You are welcome and always welcome, Gwen.   
Some song from the early nineties came on. She started swaying to the beat, wiggling her ass and smiling at him in the mirror. Her blush was so thick it ran down her neck and chest in rose-streaked blotches.   
“Next time I'll show you another magic trick," he said cautiously. “I promise you'll like it.”

I see lies  
In the eyes of a stranger  
You'll be living in danger

\- sang the girl with a strong Scandinavian accent to a harsh, synthetic beat.

Gwen was silent. He waited she would say - no, there is no any ‘next time”.   
Or, on the contrary: yes, Nik, absolutely, of course!  
But she only danced silently, wiping traces of lipstick from her face.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music:  
> Fall Out Boy - My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark

“Do you know what day it is today?”

Nik raised his nose from the papers and stared at Joe, blinking rapidly. It was, no doubt, some kind of sucker joke from his friend, but he wasn't ready to even bring his face into a state of dutiful readiness to laugh. He was so busy these days.

And oh, his thoughts were so far away from everything he had to do - money, people, meetings, lawyers, taxes and tax refunds. His mind was filled with Gwen everywhere and every second. But… And then there's his alimony, and calls from his wife. That woman earlier couldn't wipe her arse without calling him - and she couldn't now, for crying out loud.

Over the years, people get used to leaning on each other, counting on each other, so, please, be wiser, have more patience than her, be calmer. That was what he had told himself until he discovered that he had no one to lean on, and the only person in his family to lean on was him. 

And he was not even unwelcome about it. For years his usefulness had given him the feeling of sated fullness one got when he ate sandwiches, bretzels, WagonWill's sugary biscuits, and whatever else he could get his hands on, on an empty stomach. It seemed okay, but, hell, it was shitty.

Until he could no longer feed on these ghostly plans and hopes.

Yeah, it was all over.

Everything had somehow died in him, and the worst part was that not all at once, not in one day, but it was rotting and decaying, scaring people away with the stench of an unhappy (and guilty of his own unhappiness) heart. As cancer eats away at a human being's flesh, so a failed marriage corrodes the poisonous voids in one' s soul.

He had nothing to fill them with.

And - for a while - no reason to fill them either.

But now everything had changed. It was as if everything had healed, his wounds had not simply ceased to bother him, he had not even noticed them - he had been living for weeks as if he was ENORMALLY OK. Having realised this as he stood in the shower one fine morning, dreaming of seeing Gwen again - dreaming, so to speak, with his right hand, but it didn't embarrass him in the least - he suddenly felt so utterly happy and normal that he laughed out loud. It was a short, tiny, but light and joyful laugh, and then the water got in his nose, he choked, started coughing and spitting, and then he suddenly started to cry. Again, the crying was light too, as if along with the tears and snot from Nik, poor Danish Nik, a stranger both here and there, a man nowhere welcomed - as if the remnants of his painful guilt and shame were coming out of him.

Well, then he jerked off for another time, and he had absolutely no regrets at all.

But as it happened, he found himself preoccupied with these urgent, important matters that his sense of conscience - and his innate Scandinavian rationality, for that matter - simply would not allow him to abandon. Well, and actually Joe simply thought he was a greedhead.

But here Joe came into his office, plopped down in a chair across from him, put his foot on his leg, and watched with sad sympathy as Nik read papers, signed, made phone calls back and forth. Finally, he let out this joke of his.

“Do you know what day it is today?”

“The day you came to me in the midst of my business for some bullshit I don't understand?”

“No. Guy Fawkes day.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“We should be celebrating, are we Brits or what?”

“Well, that's not for me to say," he tried to joke back.

Joe was determined:

“Enough of this financial swamp. Put your papers down. We're going visiting tonight.”

“Vi…? No, no, I'm not going...”

“Visiting the party with the charming Gwendoline.”

Joe's eyebrows moved up and down, and Nik's heart dropped.

“Excuse me?!”

“At the club, dumbass. I've booked great seats. They say she's doing something fiery today. She already charmed you, though. I remember. I do.”

Nik chewed his lips, but didn't answer. He didn't want to talk about his adventures, some of which had been quite embarrassing and some of which had been so mind-blowing that... Well, no. Just no.

“I won't take no for an answer!” Joe groaned.

But he wasn't about to refuse. There was some cowardly thought, expectation of exposure himself or what. It seemed that if he come there with his friend, he would betray himself. But to turn down an opportunity to see her, just like that? You've got to be kidding me.

“What we'll be doing?” He asked dumbly.

Joe laughed.

It was insulting, but strangely satisfying laugh. After all, that's what Joe had told him: that Gwen is extraordinary. There was a sort of... mutual understanding between them about her. Extraordinary, he thought, when Joe, done prattling on about his business and worries, done badmouthing his wife and British taxes, finally hauled his ass away.

Extraordinary, enchanting, and also appallingly, terribly, awfully desirable.

His lips and tongue remembered her taste, lively and vibrant, sweet, exciting. His fingers remembered the soft smoothness of her skin, the warmth on the inside of her thighs, the endless softness, the pleasant heaviness of her magnificent bum. He could close his eyes and recreate everything in his memory so vividly, moment by moment. He was so glad that that evening - surrounded by anal lubes and rubber cocks, shameless swag, collars and whips - he was not thinking of himself, but only of her. And it came out that all his senses were heightened to the extreme. And his actor's memory, tenacious and greedy for detail, absorbed all the smallest things like a sponge absorbs water.

But, of course, all of this was not enough. He wanted to meet her there, in those miserable streets, to meet her by chance outside a diner or under the sign of a Tarot fortune-teller. Ask her how she was doing and how Patrick was doing, say something inappropriate, or listen as she blabbed something like that. To kiss her, to hug her, to walk beside her. Hold her hand. Just freaking hold her hand, just like that. Just like that.

They were late because of the traffic jams, as the city was already beginning to celebrate. The streets were crowded with drunken people. Petards flew up into the sky, shooting gold and red lights. Eventually Joe found some relatively free way, though much by-passed, and they arrived just as the first show was about to begin. On the table in front of their sofas - as usual, by the stage - a bottle of welcome drink. Fortunately, the club could not afford Cristal, they settled for the trivial (though not bad) sauvignon blanc.

On the stage the girls in Union Jack bikinis were doing the naughty dance: everything was as usual, according to the laws of the naked-ass genre. Except for the overly lively audience (Nik had even turned his head around, trying to make sure there were no any Kevins tonight). People were drinking as if these were the last times. The girls were greeted with tripled enthusiasm. Towards the end, as they undressed, white, blue and red confetti fell from the ceiling. They swirled around the tables and sofas for a long time. Joe stated that it is really silly, because they might as well have been designating the US flag or whatever. Even Denmark. And that it would be better if the girls danced wearing Guy Fawkes masks, it would be both bombastic and idiotic. Joe would have filmed it on his phone, even though they' d kicked him out then, yeah.

There is no blue in the Danish flag, Nik sluggishly tried to reason with him. They laughed at the poor state of Denmark in general and the Danes in particular, though there appeared to be some patriotic remarks in his half-drunk mind. But he didn't feel like arguing, really.

When they announced her, he even sobered up with excitement. The scene was plunged into darkness. His heart was pounding in a way that everyone in the audience could seem to hear.

The drums began to play, then the bass guitar. Lights flashed over the far platform. And flooded her with such bright glow that Nik squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. She strode down the catwalk, feet up high, as gorgeous and stunning as she could ever appear to him after all those fantasies. So incredible that his poor heart was now stuck somewhere in his throat. The hall roared.

She was wearing a scarlet dress, it opened up her legs, ended in front with a short miniskirt, and was cut at the back with a long, wide, enormous trail. The skirt was lined with a British flag pattern. On her head a tiny hat perched, with a veil, clearly alluding to the hats of the ladies at the horse races. The gloves were above her elbows. The bodice was painted with punk graffiti and embroidered with sequins.

Gwen wore high pointy nose boots, which covered her knees and were laced with red laces. Above them, up to the edge of the miniskirt she wore stockings, all covered in hooker's-like holes. But, most importantly: she had huge wings strapped under her breast with thin red straps. Shimmering red, orange and gold, the wings rose above her shoulders and ended almost on the floor.

And there she was, walking straight at him, with her arms at her waist, her elbows wide apart: a swift and radiant British angel in all her wicked glory. He heard the audience begin to sing along to the song, almost overwhelming the deafening screaming of the backing track. Gwen reached the edge of the platform without looking at anyone, smiling over their heads with her charmingly distracted and arrogant smile. Raised both hands: well, what about you? And the people around them exploded. They really blocked out the music for a moment.

Gwen pivoted from side to side, putting her foot in that fetishistic boot out, the hat on her golden curls swaying. He saw, looking up from below, that her eyes were brightly painted, her long false eyelashes were blue coloured. She was like some kind of fairy tale creature, from scary and modern fairy tales, the ones the Brits write, and they are still as strong in them, over admitted, as in nothing else.

Then she turned her back, unbuttoned something at her waist, her plume skirt dropped, and Gwen was left in just a tiny mini. She turned to the hall and, dancing, began to pull off her glove. The glove fell into the crowd, flew over their table - and went to some lucky guy in the back rows.

Gwen, swaying in her high, thin heels, moved her way toward the back of the stage, unbuttoning and dropping her bodice as she went, just tossing it carelessly into the crowd at the side of the catwalk.

As she turned towards them, Nik saw the gold and red gemstone embroidered cups of her bra. She began caressing her breasts, slipping her right hand, still gloved, into the cup. The contrast of her white skin and scarlet silk would have driven anyone crazy - but the problem was that this one in particular Nik had long since lost his head over Gwen. He just gazed at her dance and didn't know what he wanted more - for her to go on, to stop, to stop pleasuring this roaring crowd, or to finish, or to come here, to him, only to him, only for him...

She pulled the edge of her bra off her creamy white, tiny breasts with a smile, causing the people around her to moan in frustration and delight at the same time, pulled it back on, and again several times.

“Bitch,” Joe wailed beside him, “knows what she's doing! Fucking British wench!”

Truly, he thought, fumbling with his wine glass. He felt so fucked up and good at the same time - like he hadn't in a long time. Maybe never. He was getting a hard-on from this manipulation she was doing with her tits - and with the crowd, for that matter. 

Gwen, grinning triumphantly and defiantly with her big mouth, and seemingly perfectly happy, embraced by the rapture roaring around her, pulled her cups down lower. Her nipples were sticking out cheekily over the thick, shiny fabric, and her breasts seemed rounder in this position, and that too must have been a calculated effect. As if she hadn't already turned everyone on enough. She wiggled her booty to a stiff, unforgiving rhythm, pulled her skirt up, then down, and he could see that her panties had slid down to her knees. She stood with her legs spread, her panties stretched between them, her gloved hand still under her skirt.

“Fuck,” Joe growled with true passion. Everyone started clapping in rhythm, shouting - probably against club rules, he thought. He was ready to shout at her as well. Only his throat tightened at the sheer shamelessness of everything she was doing there. Gwen stepped up with her legs crossed and her panties finally falling to her heels. She just stepped out - and, pulling off her glove, she walked to the edge of the stage again. 

At that moment the false flames began to light up along the stage, with a hiss they rose from the hidden slots, with each step she took adding more and more.

When she reached the edge, it was as if Gwen had stepped out of the fire. She also tore off her miniskirt, leaving her in almost nothing but her stockings, boots and that fucking, now purely symbolic, bra. She dropped to her knees, spreading her legs wide, displaying herself in all her glory. Her wings lay around her like a burning scarlet gold cloak: a fallen angel, a delightful picture, both disgustingly obscene and beautiful.

With her head tilted back, she began to caress herself, her hands roaming over her breasts, pinching her nipples, sliding down her belly, her thighs. She began to move her ass, lifting it up, rocking to the rhythm, kneeling in front of Nik's gaping mouth (and everyone’s in the hall, he understood this even in his hazy stupor).

Everything was flickering, speeding up, as if beating to the rhythm of the music, and pulsing in a fiery merry-go-round. Her neat short fingernails, painted red. Her long arms, tattered stockings, wings folded behind her back, golden hair, white skin, and those breasts - he didn't know where to look, everything was so everywhere, so... too much. Suddenly, as if to tell him where to put his gaze, her hand slipped between her thighs.

He wanted to turn away, to do something, to say something - but, of course, he couldn't. He couldn't take his eyes off the triangle of golden hair over her labia and her moisture-covered petals. She spread them with two fingers, then paused for a moment - and then slid her fingers into her pussy, eliciting some kind of shocked "ah" from the audience. He heard Joe's gasp, too. She spread her hips even wider - pushed her two fingers even deeper into herself.

Burn everything you love then burn the ashes.

The music blared, entering a crescendo. The flames blazed, showering the stage with cold sparks.

“Light em up up up, light em up up up" people in the audience howled. And she lighted all them up.

He thought he heard her moan, or maybe it was just the movement of her beautiful lips, and she leaned back and arched toward them, opening to the full, shuddering to the music, cumming from the fact that they were looking at her and couldn't keep their eyes off her. Oh, that was something Nik had no doubt about now. The muscles on her stomach twitched, moisture coated her hand, she brought it to her mouth for a moment, licked her fingers - and returned them to her cunt.

“Fuck, yes!” was the only thing a shocked Joe could squeeze out of himself.

The music stopped, leaving only a short howl of chorus on the last bars. And it was over, the lights went out, only the fires were still shining, throwing showers of sparks. But they went out too, disappeared back into the grooves under the stage. 

Be careful making wishes in the dark, Nik thought grimly.

“What the actual fuck is she doing," Joe leaned toward him, trying to shout out the crowd, who began to sing the song again. People were jumping up from their seats, yelling something, dancing, opening champagne, shouting "Gwendoline" and "Light'em up!” – “What the bloody hell was she doing here again!”

Nik, barely moving, finished his wine and stared into the darkness above the stage with an unseeing, mindless stare. He didn't want to answer.

Gonna need a spark to ignite.

“Well? I've been told she does something special every year. A bonfire night, you know.”

“Who told you that?” Nik muttered puzzledly.

“The people from the club. And you don't think this is some kind of fucking rooftop party? When she came up with the idea of serious jerking off in front of me, I got a serious hard-on.”

“I'm sympathizing," he said dryly. 

“Me to you, too. I've seen your face at some points.”

He felt himself blushing like a boy.

“Oh, come on. It's okay, Nik. Calm down. I'll order some more wine and... Here, listen. We can get you that lap dance again. What? You want some?! I can see you do! I can't spare any money for you, considering how happy you were last time...”

At this point Nik really paniked, and Joe took out his phone and started to press buttons. He sat pensive for a while, then said confusedly:

“Shit. This is some bullshit. They offer to book a private dance but she's not on the list.”

“What do you mean she's not on the list?”

“It's simply her name is not on the list tonight. And not tomorrow. And... not at all. Well, don't tell me she's regained her long-lost chastity. What a slut.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Again, in an extremely dorky voice, he asked.

“I guess she's no longer performing in the club's private room. Only onstage.”

Joe sighed and poured himself another one shot:

“Oh, well... Well. That's a shame. Girl's got a real talent for lighting you up.”

“All of us,” Nik said mechanically.

“Yeah, everyone. And herself too,” chuckled Joe. “No, I mean, did you see that? She cummed, I swear to you, it' not something you can fake. And you won't ever forget. "Remember, remember the fifth of November..." She just cum right there in front of everybody, spread her pussy, put her hand inside herself and cum nearly on my jacket.”

Joe laughed so hard the wine almost went down his nose. He looked at his unhappy friend - and calmed down a little:

“Okay, maybe it would've gotten on yours, too. How could she not have squirted in here? I'm surprised our slut didn't have the imagination to do it. If she'd squirted me, I wouldn't have minded.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I swear to you. I wonder what she tastes like in there.”

“I'm serious, Joe. That's enough.” - Nik cringed at his friend's words, as if he'd been hit. He wanted to get up and leave, to get himself out in the fresh air, away from all this bullshit. But the thought of Gwen kept him from walking away. Trying not to show his face, he remarked carelessly:

“If she's no longer on the private dance schedule, then maybe she doesn't want to do it anymore. Listen, Joe...”

“What?”

“Look, I know you've got this super power. You can talk anyone into anything.”

“Do I have to talk her into it?! Get her to dance for you? Why not just get her to blow you, Nik?”

“No,” he grimaced. “Let me have a word with her.”

“I don't mind,” Joe said benignly. “Go ahead and chat with her.”

Nik glanced at his friend; he knew he looked like a battered dog - and he knew that look would melt anybody’s heart - and Joe snorted involuntarily, angrily and yet affectionately.

“Ah, shit. What a mess. Did she really hook you up? Nik? Yeah, I get it, she's as big as an accountant's cupboard, but she's... yeah, she's so juicy and soft, and that skin... Nik, but don't freak out, please. She is just...”

“A stripper, I know. That's why you can do it. I mean, you even got me backstage with Sting, remember?”

“Fuck your fucking Sting! And it was your wife who talked me into it, or rather, fucked me up. What a crazy woman.”

“Now, I'm begging you.”

“Sting didn't masturbate on stage to "Fall Out Boy."

“So much the easier.”

“What are you gonna say to her? "I'm sorry, I got so erect, my mind went blank"? Anyone can tell her that, especially after tonight. Or are you gonna wish her a happy holiday? Yeah, she'll be pleased someone noticed Guy Fawkes Day ignited her orgasm. It's ironic, if anything. Actually, everyone here has noticed that, too.”

“I… I want to give her some flowers.”

“Order them and send them backstage.”

“In person.”

“You know, it's a strip club, there' s a strict order - that's first. And second, the guard guys here are used to it, and they can... you know what they can do to me?”

“Please.”

“Nik, no. Don't even try.”

“Please, I'm actually begging now.”

They bickered for a while, but Nik could see that his friend had already given up. For Joe, of course, this would be another conquest in the chain of his brilliant social victories. He really prided himself on his ability to talk his way into anything and anyone. Finally, Joe, grumbling and muttering to himself, got up and left.

Nik called to the waitress and asked for a bouquet of flowers; she nodded understandingly. Many customers didn't bother, preferring to have such gifts delivered directly to the club.

After some time, when he imagined that Joe had been beaten and dumped in the backyard, the flowers arrived. He took the envelope with the note and, begging the waitress for a pencil, squinting blindly (at that moment some girl on stage was twirling on a pole and lights were flashing, giving him a headache mixed with nausea), wrote his address, date and time.

Now it was time to find Joe - dead or alive, he thought with a grim chuckle. And, just as he thought that, Joe himself showed up. He sniffled, looking suspiciously happy:

“I had to buy a few treats and have a few refreshments myself. You see, my dear Danish friend, these days you can't get a ride if you don't grease it. Oh, I see you haven't wasted any time either.”

“Well, how's it going?”

Joe made a patronizing gesture: let's go. At the same time, it probably meant something like ''study my art while I'm alive''.

A guard let them into the inner corridors, and another guy, with whom Joe exchanged understanding grins, pointed to the doors of the make-up rooms. Everything looked like a real theatre, which struck Nik, but also got a little chuckle out of him. I'll never leave the theatre, he thought sadly. I could have fallen in love with anyone. Even a supermarket lady. But, no. It turned out to be a stage girl...

Why "fall in love", he got angry with himself again. Let's be a little more precise in our terms.

Joe, grinning, clapped him on the shoulder:

“The guards won't touch you unless you get rowdy and raise your voice. But I can't vouch for Gwendoline herself. If she knocks your teeth out, it's not my fault, okay? Call me later and let me know how it turns out.”

He disappeared, and Nik stood in the empty corridor for some time. From somewhere he could hear women's laughter, the sound of phone calls, chatter. Then he mustered up all his courage, knocked and walked straight in.

Gwen was sitting by a large mirror, the round lamps around her reflection shining brightly. She was wiping the remnants of her makeup off her cheek, and he immediately remembered the other night. He even remembered the song, and it was all involuntarily and, in some brief, unhappy flash. Stiffened, she stared at him in the mirror. Then she turned in her swiveling chair. She was wearing a white fluffy dressing gown and a white towel like a turban on her head. She was silent for a few seconds, either staggered by his appearance or by everything at once.

“How did you...” she began. “How did you get in here?”

“This is for you," he held up the bouquet. It was a beautiful bouquet of red and yellow roses, and he placed it on the table beside her makeup desk. Her wings were already resting there, and he unwittingly noted how beautifully the colours came together. Gwen, however, was not particularly impressed. She shifted her gaze to him. Without those false eyelashes, her eyes again seemed to him so defenseless and delicately innocent.

“I asked you a question.”

“I was allowed through.”

“That can't be true.”

“But it happened," he felt a surge of smugness and decided to skip the details about Joe's sneaky progresses.

“And for exactly what?”

He took a step toward her - and stopped when he noticed that she flinched.

“You stopped private dances? Why?” he asked, and it sounded resentful in a way that made him feel uncomfortable. Gwen wrinkled her nose as well.

“Why do you even care?”

“As you can see, I care.”

She turned away and started rubbing her eyelid with the wet cotton pad.

“I am not doing the private shows anymore.”

“Why?”

“I don't want to.”

She twitched her shoulder, as if explaining herself was no longer necessary. Really, he thought, the reason wasn't so disrespectful.

“In general? Or just with me?”

Gwen's hand stopped in midair:

“Excuse me?”

“I wonder - do you not want to dance for me? Or at all?”

She pursed her lower lip and didn't dignify that with a response.

“I just want to understand,” he started again, immediately hating himself for his annoying and obnoxious tone.

Gwen was silently fiddling with wipes, cotton wools, splashing cosmetic sprays on them. Her hands moved so deftly; he couldn't help but admire the long fingers with that scarlet nail polish on her perfect nails. He wanted to go over and kiss her soft-smelling hand, press his face to it, press her fingers against his cheek.

“What difference did it make, Nik? If you want a private dance, book any dancer you want.”

“What the fuck,” he said indignantly, then suddenly stopped talking.

He realized that her voice sounded hurt and jealous-just like his own.

“Gwen. Don't be absurd. I don't want any of them.”

She carefully looked him over in the mirror.

“Then just get over it.”

He was quiet, hoping to gather his thoughts somehow. The conversation with Gwen was coming out (though it wasn't new to him) tense and strange. And yet, in the next moment, he burst out:

“Is showing your pussy to hundreds of men more enjoyable than to just one!”

She actually opened her mouth, clearly unable to believe her own ears. Nik couldn't stop now, he was muttering like a madman about to be twisted and pelted with ice water, but for now he had only seven fucking seconds left to save the world (and himself):

“To the one who... who... so much likes you, and very much, very...”

He shut up as abruptly as he started talking.

Just very, very badly, Joe would say.

Totally in love with you, he'd say.

Like, probably, even loves you.

Luckily, Joe wasn't here with them right now.

“Get out,” she said quietly.

“What?”

“Get out of here.”

“You can't kick me out, not after everything that...”

“Oh, please, just fuck off! - she shrieked, getting up. - Get the fuck out of here, Nik!”

He staggered toward the door, but the adrenaline in his blood was doing its job. He moved toward her, leaning so close that he could smell the floral scent of her shampoo. Her skin, visible through the neckline of her bathrobe, also gave off a lovely – and so very her - scent, clean and fresh, that made his heart ache.

“I'm sorry I treated you so well,” he said venomously. “I'm sorry I didn't yell like the others, jump like a baboon, call you a bloody wench or British whore…”

She lowered her eyes, her hand fumbling for her collar and pulling it to her throat:

“If you hadn't done so, you were thinking of it.”

“Smartass girl. Don't decide for me what I was thinking” he advised softly.

“I know all the minds of my clients, yours included. That's my job.”

“You're a bloody stripper, not a shrink.”

“Thank you for respecting what I am doing, Nik,” she said bitterly.

“You know, your insecurities sometimes are really annoying.”

“Like your silly arguments about whom I should show to and what I should show.”

“And your stupid refusals to explain anything to me.”

“Do I have to? And to you?!”

“At least try.”

“I don't work for solo clients anymore,” she said softly.

“Is there a reason, and I mean, something you're afraid to tell? Did someone abuse you? Tell me, and I...”

“I just don't want anyone to come in there and... and... I can't see your faces from the stage, don't you understand me at all! And in private, I see them all. And I don't want to look at them anymore!”

“And what about me? You don't want to look at me?” he asked, stunned by her sudden outburst.

She turned away and began fiddling with her tins, hiding her eyes.

“I wouldn't... I... Gwendoline. Forgive me. I would not have made this order, if I knew that for you it was so...”

“It was not difficult,” she remarked quietly. “Before.”

“And has something changed?”

She raised her head and looked at him over her shoulder.

“Yes. For me. I've changed. Nothing else had.”

He started backing toward the door. There was pain in her voice. He wanted to hug her and hold her close to him, not let her go, not give her to anyone, ever. But there were cameras staring at him from every corner. And to hell with them - but they were also staring at his poor, confused, wretched Gwen.

“Take the flowers, please. I really wanted to... I... There's a note, I wrote some nonsense. Honestly. It's stupid. But I...”

She was silent, standing in her profile to him, lowering her head. Then she slowly pulled the towel from her hair, her hair falling, glistening dark gold, damp, curling into faint curls.

And then Gwen sobbed and pressed the towel to her face.


	8. Chapter 8

That day he’d got a lot of clothes delivered to him, which he had, on the advice of his daughter, ordered online, because his face had become somewhat oddly recognizable in expensive shops. He felt uncomfortable signing autographs and taking selfies with his fly unzipped after a fitting. 

Going through items, he tried to figure out what outfit would make a positive impression on Gwen. A kindly dad in a soft cashmere jumper and slacks? Elegant Mr. Grey in a tailored suit and with a red room hidden in his basement?  
He didn't have a red room, so he had to do with cashmere and go put the chicken in the oven. He could easily imagine she wouldn't come: well, yes, why not. She probably wouldn't. Because - why would she want to come?  
But there was hope mixed with premonition in him, so he decided to allow himself until the last moment (and he'd given her two... okay, three hours to be late) to have faith in the best. 

And for the first time in years, he wished he’d have a gram of cocaine. It would come in so handy now.  
Appearing high behind her eyes, though, was sort of a letdown, too. All right, he said to himself, brushing his teeth for the fifteenth time that afternoon. OK, calm down, relax, make a pleasant face and, for God's sake, stop: a) making boomer jokes (that was also one of his daughter's advice) and b) laughing at them yourself.  
Oh, and c) stop bothering her by asking moronic questions.

So, the secret to success was simple. All that was left to do was wait for Gwen and make it happen!  
The doorbell rang as he was examining his wine supply, picking one to... He jumped and almost dropped the bottle. He ran to open the door, and when he saw her on the doorstep, he must have had the stupidest face in the world. He could have won a prize for it. 

She stood there, wearing blue jeans and a green blouse, her beige coat on the top. A scarf with Indian patterns was wrapped around her neck. Her purse dangled over her shoulder and in her hand, she held a bakery paper bag.

“Hello.”  
“Gwendoline!”

There was so much dumbfounded surprise in his voice that he laughed embarrassedly. She waited patiently for Nik to pull himself together. Always so kind to him. Always too much, too, too... Yes, God. What's wrong with him?!

“Are you gonna let me in? Or are we going somewhere...”

She made an awkward gesture, pointing behind her back.

“Of course,” he fussed, “come in, please, come in.”

He swung the door wide open, letting her and some of the cold snowy wind in. She kicked off her shoes. Her big, but graceful feet were in blue thin socks, and he felt sorry for her somehow, imagined her walking in short jogs through the icy streets of the wealthy quarters. 

“Feel cold?”  
Gwen rubbed the tip of her nose and smiled:  
“My skin always gets red from the wind.”  
“That's cute. I mean... awful, I mean... no, not really any good. But cute.”  
Because you have EVERYTHING so cute, shouted someone inside him, and with such desperation. Nik suppressed the impulse to start making inappropriate jokes.  
They stood like that for a while in the narrow hallway, staring at each other. Gwen shuffled from foot to foot, shifting the paper bag from one hand to the other. Then he woke up:  
“Give me your coat. Listen. I'm so glad you are here.”  
“I saw your note.”  
“That's great. I figured since we can't call each other, then...”  
“Those flowers are beautiful. And… I would have come,” she assured him calmly. “I would definitely be there for you. Nik.”

He hung her coat on the hanger and led her into the room, babbling on and on about his theatre projects and whatnot, just to keep his mouth full and not scare her away with a silence. Gwen stopped in front of the big window in his living room. The architect who had remodelled this old and expensive house had made a wide cot on the low window sill, on which now were stacks of colourful cushions and books. Behind the glass the dark green waters of the river ran cold. Gwen stood for a while, staring at the embankments and bridges; the view from here was, well, pretty good. Then she woke up too. And turned to him, shuddering with confusion.

“Oh. Sorry. I bought this in case we wanted to have a cup of tea. Time is,” she looked behind her, at the heavy leaden sky looming over the city. “That's right, five o'clock.”

He took the bag from her and carried it into the kitchen. There he stopped and forced himself to exhale a few times. He stood like that, gripping the edge of the sink with his fingers - when he felt someone watching. Gwen was standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb with her shoulder. 

“What's troubling you?” she asked softly.  
“I don't know,” he smiled disarmingly. “I'm sorry. I'm not usually like this.”  
“And what are you like?”  
“Well... much more outgoing, you know.”  
“You seem fine to me,” she assured him, gently and earnestly. “Nik. Are you sure everything's okay?”

Apart from the fact that you're here, well, yeah, everything, he thought in a short, sharp panic.

Gwen looked politely around the large, bright kitchen. 

“Very pretty interior,” she said softly. “Did you design it yourself?”  
“My wife hired a designer,” he grimaced. “I mean, I hired one, and she gave us some... instructions.”  
“It turned out very nice.”  
“Thank you. Do you mind some roasted chicken? I have my special recipe…”  
She raised an eyebrow, and for a second he thought she was going to laugh at him. But she just smiled:  
“I won't say no.”  
“There's some red wine too.”

He told her the brand and the year, and Gwen nodded again with the most thoughtful expression. He dashed to the refrigerator for some salad vegetables, smacked his pinky toe on the corner of the kitchen island and hesitated for a second to stop himself from howling. But he managed to restrain himself. While Gwen strutted along the big wall above the dining area where the designer, at his wife's behest, had hung up many portraits of her from all sorts of angles - including nude, pregnant, pregnant-nude, and all the other ways she always liked herself so much - he washed and chopped tomatoes and basil, overcoming the hell of pain.  
Okay, the pain wasn't particularly hellish. Rather, it added some hue to the palette of his humiliation. That photo wall, designed to declare (and to Gwen also) who really was who, and her silence, clearly perplexed (and maybe even frustrated). And his awkwardness. 

And all of it, everything, as if it had been deliberately designed to destroy him.

“I need a change of exposition,” he joked when the pause had become unbearable.

Gwen turned to him, and he saw a deep wrinkle between her eyebrows. Like all nearsighted people, she looked both a little grumpy and very confused, and here she was looking - like that - at him, and he finished by adding for some reason:  
“We've been married a long time. Twenty years. That's a long time.”

Gwen smiled, albeit somewhat wryly: yes, well, I realise. 

“And what about you?”  
“Me?” she wondered, and completely sincerely. “No, I’ve never been.”  
He pretended to be too absorbed in the nuances of tomato slicing. He was suddenly ashamed of his question. The Brits aren't really supposed to do that, both ask and answer.  
“You never felt like that? Yes, I know what you mean,” Nik muttered.  
“Oh, really?” she snorted.  
“No, not really, though... yes, I think some people, well... have a right to... or rather not to…”  
He trailed off, unsure why he was even getting into this mess.  
“I'm glad you have a family, Nik.”  
“I had. But not now.”  
“But your kids...”  
“Well, if only in that context. Now. Only just like that.”  
She shrugged, as if to say okay, if that makes you feel better.  
“You're not allergic to basil, are you?” he asked.  
“N-no.” She was quiet, as if she were gathering her thoughts. “Nik. Hey, listen. You didn't do anything wrong, I'm sure.”  
He looked up.  
“Well, I didn't, yeah.”  
“But you look like you're ashamed of something.”  
“That's just a… I don’t know, well, confusion.”  
“You're not that kind of man,” she smiled reproachfully. “You're not like that at all.”  
“That's true," he said, and at the same moment he slashed the knife across his thumb. 

He didn't even feel pain, but he saw that the blood mixed with the tomato juice and made it as thick as lasagna sauce. Nik stuck his finger in his mouth, wondering if he would live to see the end of this evening, and what else he would chop off or cut off if he continued in this direction.  
Gwen, frightened, jumped up to him, scurried around the kitchen, fetched a wet cold towel, he made her open the medicine cabinet and find some antiseptic. All the way, she diligently participated, oohing and ahhing, and actually looked terribly upset, and that pleased him.

Pleased so, so strong.

So when she started to wrap his finger in a Band-Aid - it wasn't bleeding any more, by the way - he was still manfully groaning through his teeth. She was touching him at that moment with those lovely, soft, long-fingered hands of hers, and the touch alone made him go crazy, and everything made: her breathing as she leaned into his palm, her attentive and serious blue eyes... Everything. The curve of her eyelashes, dark from the mascara at the tips and light near the eyelid. And how stunningly beautiful her eyelids were, with that elusive graceful raised corner, the final touch, the final stroke of perfection: like ancient Greek statues. And those cute and light her freckles on her high and baby-like forehead. And the way she smelled - her perfume as fresh as a rainy garden, the clean breeze, the endless happiness, or rather, its promise. 

“Here you go,” Gwen said quietly. “And be careful, please. You didn't break your pinky toe, did you?”  
“What?!”  
“On your leg. I saw you bump your foot.”  
He felt bitter, sad and resentful that Gwen had seen it all, all his little pantomimes and tricks and escapades.  
“I didn't break anything,” he said curtly, looking away from her lips. “I'm perfectly fine. Do you want a glass of wine?”  
“Be so kind. Just don't hurt yourself by opening the bottle.”

He was torn between wanting to feel offended and giggling. Chose the latter, of course. Poured himself and her a shot, turned, handed her the glass:  
“Thank you for coming!”  
“Yes,” she replied simply. “You shouldn't have worried.”  
“Why would you think that,” he began indignantly. Then he gave in. “Yes, I was worried, I'm sorry. I didn't... We had such a bad conversation... There's always something wrong with me at this club.”  
“It wasn't your fault.”  
“Nor yours.”  
“Yeah,” Gwen agreed, very easily again. “It just happened.”  
“Right. Chin-chin. Cheers. Gwen? And you should know that… You're very... very...”

He stuttered. That would have sounded like a clichéd, forced compliment. "Beautiful"? She's incomparable, damn it. She's beyond beauty and ugly, she's, she's...

“Very adorable,” he finished awkwardly. “Smart and kind and... Extraordinary. And I'm very...”

Nik coughed into his glass. He started to drink and immediately choked on it, giving a grunt. Gwen sipped quietly, carefully, wrinkling her nose for a moment as she drank: like a cat, twitching the bridge of her nose after every sip.  
And she stared down at him, as if waiting to see what injury he would reward himself with this time.  
It was Joe's expression: give a fool a glass dick, he'll smash his dick and cut his hands.  
Yeah. That was the position he was in. Well, or he got himself into it, for that matter...  
She put the glass down and he repeated after her, involuntarily noticing that he'd already finished half of his own and she'd only taken a little sip. He was still about to ponder this, when suddenly, without a word, very quickly, Gwen leaned over, wrapped her hands around his face, her palms on his cheeks as hot and tender as two huge open blooms - and kissed him on the lips. She recoiled almost immediately, he only had time to grasp her wrists - please don't, don't, don't, don't go - and she was already jerking back in confusion. Her face was flaming. Her skin seemed to glow from within with a pinkish, hot gleam. Gwen hesitated and, with a guilty smile, wiped a trace of lipstick off his lip with her thumb.  
He was still squeezing her wrists, then, seeing her grimace, came to his senses and let go.

“I don't... Gwen, oh. I don't...”  
Nik didn't finish, took a step, returned the favor with a kiss - and acted much rougher, without that aerial, affectionate delicacy of hers. As Joe would have said, "Burn the whole bloody thing”. And it was oh, so burning now.  
He pushed his tongue into her mouth, and their tongues intertwined, collided and parted, and it felt hot, silky, fucking magical inside her. He pressed her against the edge of the kitchen island, his hands on her neck, caressing some sensitive spot, he knew it, he felt it. She began to moan, her breath coming in fast and shallow. Breaking the kiss, he stared at her, no longer knowing what to do - and what would happen? Would she yell, be offended, leave?  
Or would she forgive him? She always forgave him. She always did! - Someone screamed angrily in his head again.  
Her hair was mussed, and he could see the red mark of his fingers on her neck. Such soft skin, and almost insensible, like a creamy mist or flower petals. He leaned in again and kissed the spot, licked and bit lightly. Gwen whimpered softly, shyly.  
She hugged him: tight and eager - and with that gesture, everything was resolved. Nik began to kiss her - again and again, deeply, fearlessly, everything became clear and simple, just like in those moments when he'd stood in the shower and suddenly realized he was no longer in pain. And now he suddenly realised that he was no longer in fear either.  
She had this ability to make him, Nik, feel fine. One look, a short moan, a slight movement, a gesture, even the fact that she was basically present somewhere here, in this world, in his "here and now". If not in the 'here', but in the 'now' - and that would be enough, he thought excitedly. When he pulled away, not without some regret, he saw that her mouth was swollen with kisses, her lipstick wiped off. Her eyes were shining and smiling. He brushed a naughty strand away from her cheek, admiring the porcelain and infinitely adorable face.  
“Gwen,” his voice was hoarse. “I haven't been with anyone, I... Not since my wife, just somehow, I don't know, I didn't know...”

That I would meet you, he wanted to tell.

“I didn't need anyone, I guess.”

Except you, his poor, insatiable heart longed to utter again. But opening up to her at such a moment was risky. Though she didn't look frightened or upset, rather the opposite - but those suffocating confessions should have been left for more appropriate moments. Nik simply leaned in and kissed under her ear.  
His lips slid lower, he picked up her scent and drank in her taste, as if, caught by him, they would become his special hidden possessions, and, magically, they gave him a daring. He moved lower and lower, pulled back the collar of her blouse and kissed her collarbone and the dimple between her collarbones. Her hands stroked his back, his shoulder blades, and moved, too - lower, along his spine, causing his whole body to tingle pleasantly, a foreboding sense of impending joy.  
Nik couldn't hold it in, finally pulled up her blouse, his fingers tracing the smooth delicate skin - he realized with delight that she wasn't wearing a bra. It somehow gave a direction to his actions, defined them: he sighed, unable to hide his admiration, and pressed his lips to her tit. Her nipple felt hot and plump beneath his tongue, it grew firm and seductively rigid, and he wanted to bite down on it.  
Which he did, eliciting a broken moan from Gwen, and she pressed tighter against him, her breasts pressed into his face, her fingers entwined in his hair.  
It filled him with a brief glee, as if he'd discovered another treasure, fumbling in the blackness, in his weird fantasies and desires, and in her confused answering search. What she was waiting for at that moment, love or lust, was no longer important. He would think later, when... he could even think at all. Still, in some corner of his mind, he knew he had to make sure she was ready - not just confused by his urging, and he pulled away from her tit with regret, lifted his head. Gwen's eyes clouded over, a confused, drunken smile coming and going on her swollen lips.

“May I...?”  
She fluttered her eyelashes as if he'd pulled her out of some distant, hazy dream.

“Nik...” she said quietly, with a knowing, apologetic chuckle. She pulled back slightly, raised her hand to her naked breasts. The green silk above them was like dark sea water, and her breasts were a kind of mother-of-pearl shell with a jasper bead of nipple. She squeezed her nipple and groaned, showing him: it was a silly question. He watched mesmerized as her fingers twisted the scarlet thin flesh, and then he pressed his lips to the other tit.  
Love you, he thought at some point. So much. Don't care about anything else. I love you, I love you.  
But he couldn't say none of it. Something inside him stretched and trembled, like a string, and if he touched it, it would vibrate even more, deafen him - forever. Because of that shuddering inside, because of that inaudible thrumming, he couldn't bring himself to speak. 

He just caressed Gwen, harder and harder, listening only to her moans, her confused breathing, her sighs, which he thought were the only important signposts on his path in this full, mysterious, perfect, delightful off-roading. She arched up to meet his lips and tongue, arched her head back, then withdrew her arms downward. Nik watched her fumble with the zip of her jeans - awkward for a stripper, he thought suddenly, and his mouth parted in a smug, boyish grin.  
It turned out that he loved her for that too - for the fact that with him she could forget what a professional exhibitionist she was, lose all her skills, become real - or show her real self.  
The confused movements of her fingers, which kept slipping against the heavy metal buttons. Hopelessly. He pushed her palm away and finished the job himself, immediately pulling the tight fabric down. Gripped the waistband of her jeans along with her panties. She snorted embarrassedly, leaned over and helped him complete it, her beautiful legs soon left fully exposed. Nik knelt down, pressing his face into her long, infinitely lovely thigh. The skin on it was cool, smooth, but with faintly visible bumps - from the cool air in his kitchen or from excitement, he didn't know. He began to kiss her, kissed the smooth cup of her knee, marvelling for the umpteenth time at the perfection of the shape - a woman with this kind of knee shape could bring the whole world to their knees. 

Then he moved higher, and she moaned softly as his mouth covered her clit in a hot, greedy kiss. Gwen hooked her fingers into his hair, pulling him toward her, then away from her, and he let her direct the movement, knowing that this illusion of control was needed - for both of them. Then she pushed upwards, embarrassed to let him go, and he began to rise, pulling his nerdy jumper off over his head as he went. He tossed it to the floor, followed by the shirt that had been taken off, not even fully unbuttoned. He felt awkward and stupid - for wearing such a disgraceful, old-fashioned outfit, and for some reason he was glad to be rid of it all now.  
They settled on the floor, entwined in an embrace, kneeling together, the kisses getting hotter and faster: eager, full, frank. Now - skin to skin, breast to breast - they pushed themselves into this intimacy like a hand entering a tight and yet pliable glove. Somehow stealthily Gwen found herself beneath him, she was lying on her back, her legs bent at the knees, her hair like golden petals on the dark cool stone. Her face was contorted and filled with quick, wanton pleasure, her eyebrows drawn together over the bridge of her nose, her soft lips ajar. He kissed that lovely mouth, then her stubborn chin, her neck, feeling the vein beat beneath his tongue.

She pulled her knees apart, wider and wider, letting him in, buckling towards him. Her pussy was wet and hot, and he slid his hand into it. His fingers found their way into the sweet warmth and moisture he'd longed for. It was amazing how all these sensations made his personality - the one full of doubt, uncertainty, or alternatively, overconfidence and rage - disappear, and he settled into himself, transformed into himself, returned.  
His finger slipped inside, she cried out, the scream turned into a moan, she pushed against him, he added another finger, and a third, thrusting into her and rocking her slightly, and she picked up the rhythm easily. Her ass even lifted a little, lifting off the floor. An outrageously obscene, delightfully tantalising sight. Gwen kept opening up and exposing herself to him, and he couldn't hold back any longer.  
He pulled his hand out and pushed his cock in, but not all the way in, and he froze instantly, afraid she would kick him away, shove him away, or make fun of him: who did he really think he was? She shuddered with her whole body, as if a wave went through those beautiful breasts and charmingly tender belly - she opened her eyes, spread her legs wider. Ocean-eyes, he thought mesmerized.

“Is everything all right?” Nik breathed out cautiously.  
“Yeah,” she answered, her voice hoarse with desire. “Yes. Please. Yes…”  
“Does it feel good?”  
“Don't stop now.”  
“Do you really feel good?”  
A faint grin appeared on her lips-and then disappeared. And another one. The smirks fluttered one by one, like butterflies. Her lashes lowered, hiding half of her blue, misty eyes:  
“You want me to say it out loud?”  
He fidgeted embarrassedly, not knowing whether to pull back or still increase the pressure. His insistence would be rewarded, there was no doubt. But he didn't want to force her; he'd rather cut off his own arm, of course. He didn't even want to coax her. He wanted her to decide for herself. She always did everything to him herself - she came and left notes and let him in. And talked to him. He felt a rush of joyful, almost perverse anticipation - of being able to surrender to her this time too, to give himself up, to submit, to compel himself, to oblige himself, to turn himself inside out, to turn from predator to prey - and then back again.  
Her hands went up and wrapped around his face. She pulled, making him almost touch her cheekbone with his lips. Her voice poured at his ears like milk and honey:  
“Nik. Fuck me. Fuck me deeper. As deep as you can. Like... like you want.”  
And something went off in his brain, a circuit breaker of some kind. He thrust in with the triumph of a lord occupying new territory, with vicious and barbaric delight, he entered, accompanied by her triumphant moans. She squirmed, arched beneath him and cried out as he rammed into her - indeed, as deep as he could and wanted to sink in. Maybe a little further. For a second or two he just didn't move, letting her adjust and himself finally realise what had happened.  
His cock was engulfed in her eager and velvet-tender flesh, she was doing something with it - involuntarily, no, there wasn't a drop of her praised professionalism in this anymore. But she was doing something that made his heart tingle with a rush of pure adrenaline and turned his erection to stone and hammer. Nik pressed his lips against her neck and finally began to thrust, and she responded obediently and willingly, thrusting against him, opening, squeezing, unclenching: such a delicious captivity, the sweetest in the world.

The rhythm was growing, and there was no point in holding back - not that there was any energy too; Nik had already used it up trying to behave like a civilized person. Now, on the floor, they were a unified, frantic beast, merging, melding, clashing and separating, over and over again, unable to get enough - and unable to let go.  
At one point, with desperation, he realised he couldn't hold on any longer - that he was cumming and Gwen was still - he somehow simply knew it, hadn't calculated it or guessed it - but just knew it - hadn't yet reached the edge of orgasm. He forced himself to slow down, began to cover her with kisses, and soon - when his lips were on her nipples and his palms squeezed her ass, lifted and slightly apart, even wider - her hips parted before him, opened completely, a marble gateway to the forbidden garden. He pressed a finger to her clit and moved up and down: and she screamed and twitched with her whole body, as if she had been electrified.  
As she cummed, it was as if his cock was caught in a gentle but powerful tide, with waves running through it, rapidly, faster and faster - and then everything began to slow down, pulsing in a neat and steady pace.  
And that was when he finally let himself go. He pressed his lips to her ear, and the words flowed out of him, laced with his breath and barely audible through the frantic beat of his blood, through her screams and moans, spilling out with his semen in her hot core:  
"You're mine, you're mine, mine, mine, I love you, Gwen, I love you so, so much..."

He mumbled for a while longer, horrified to discover exactly WHAT was coming out of him - but he couldn't stop. She lay trembling beneath him, droplets of sweat glistening on her brow, and he, startled and terribly ashamed, just kissed her soft, hot lips. He pressed his forehead against hers.

“I'm sorry. Do not listen.”  
She sighed softly - he felt her broad chest rise and fall:  
“Too late.”  
“Pretend you don't...”  
“I will,” she whispered and gave a faint laugh.  
She wrapped his face with her palms, pulled him to hers and kissed the tip of his nose:  
“You have a beautiful nose.”  
“And what about my cock?” he smirked.  
“Hmm. It's lovely too.”  
“Oh, is it indeed?”  
“Absolutely gorgeous,” she informed him in all seriousness.

He didn't know if she was kidding, mocking him, trying to make him feel better. Or was she really...? Gwen let him go, placing one last kiss on the bridge of his nose - and he began to rise gingerly, afraid she was becoming uncomfortable under his weight.  
His cock slid out of her, still half in the action position. What was wrong with him, why was she doing this to him? Her charms could be patented, like a special kind of Viagra. Or some such thing... He chuckled to himself at the awkwardness of his thoughts. At their amazing, blinky, post-orgasmic idiocy. Gwen moved a bit, brought her legs together slightly. Her chest quivered as she tried to even out her breathing, taking deeper inhales. He stroked her abdomen and that lovely golden hair below. Now he was sitting on his knees between her firm thighs.

She looked up at him lazily from under her lashes. Her face was soft, surprisingly calm, peaceful, as if some sort of satisfaction veil obscured it.  
“And you're a very handsome man,” she said softly.  
“You think so?” he was pleased. 

She moved her head slightly, but didn't raise it, just rolled with the back of her head:  
“Nik. Everything's fine. It’s okay. Really...”  
She was quiet, biting down on her tortured, scarlet lip. And then said quietly:  
“Nik. I'm here. I'm here with you. I'm with you.”


End file.
